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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF  WRITERS, 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS 


BY 

CHARLES  AND  MARY  COWDEN  CLARKE, 

AUTHORS  OF     "  THE    COMPLETE    CONCORDANCE    TO     SHAKESPEARE," 
"riches  of  CHAUCER,"   ETC. 


WITH    LEITERS    OF 

CHARLES   LAMB,  LEIGH    HUNT, 
DOUGLAS  JERROLD,   AND   CHARLES   DICKENS; 

AND   A 

PREFACE  BY  MARY  COWDEN  CLARKE. 


NEW   YORK : 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS, 

743   AND   745  Broadway. 
\All  rights  reserved] 


C^jf 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE  

GENERAL   RECOLLECTIONS    . 
RECOLLECTIONS  OF  JOHN    KEATS 
CHARLES   LAMB  AND    HIS   LETTERS 

MARY   LAMB 

LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS  . 
DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS 
CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS 
INDEX •  • 


tAGM 

vii 
I 
1 20 
158 
176 
190 

273 
295 

343 


PREFACE. 


A  PORTION  of  these  "  Recollections  "  apf  eared  in 
the  Gentleman  s  Magazine ;  but  appeared  therein 
imperfect  form.  They  were  written  by  the  Author- 
couple  happily  together.  One  of  the  wedded  pair 
has  quitted  this  earthly  life  ;  and  the  survivor  now 
puts  the  "  Recollections  "  into  complete  and  col- 
lected form,  happy  at  least  in  this,  that  she  feels 
she  is  thereby  fulfilling  a  wish  of  her  lost  other 
self. 

The  earliest  and  best  of  these  "Recollections" 
(the  one  on  John  Keats,  written  entirely  by  the 
beloved  hand  that  is  gone)  gave  rise  to  the  rest. 
Friends  were  so  pleased  and  interested  by  the 
schoolfellow's  recollections  of  the  poet,  that  they 
asked  for  other  recollections  of  writers  known  to 
both  husband  and  wife.  The  task  was  one  of 
mingled  pain  and  pleasure ;  but  it  was  performed 


viii  PRE  FA  CE. 

^like  so  many  others  undertaken  by  them — in 
happy  companionship,  and  this  made  the  pleasure 
greater  than  the  pain. 

Charles  and  Mary  Cowden  Clarke  may  with  truth 
be  held  in  tender  remembrance  by  their  readers  as 
among  the  happiest  of  married  lovers  for  more  than 
forty-eight  years,  writing  together,  reading  together, 
working  together,  enjoying  together  the  perfection 
of  loving,  literary  consociation  ;  and  kindly  sym- 
pathy may  well  be  felt  for  her  who  is  left  to  singly 
subscribe  herself, 

Her  readers'  faithful  servant. 


Mary  Cowden  Clarke. 


Villa  Novello, 
Genoa,  1S78. 


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RECOLLECTIONS   OF   WRITERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

John  Clarke — Vincent  Novello — John  Ryland — George  Dyer 
— Rev.  Rowland  Hill — Dr.  Alexander  Geddes  —Dr.  Priestley 
— Bishop  Lowth — Gilbert  Wakefield — Mason  Good — 
Richard  Warburton  Lytton — Abbe  Beliard — Holt  White- 
Major  and  Mrs.  Cartwright — John  Keats — Edward  Holmes 
— Edward  Cowper — Frank  Twiss — Mrs  Siddons — Miss 
O'Neil — John  Kemble — Edmund  Kean — Booth — Godwin. 

To  the  fact  of  our  having  had  pre-eminently  good  and 
enlightened  parents  is  perhaps  chiefly  attributable  the 
privilege  we  have  enjoyed  of  that  acquaintance  with 
gifted  people  which  has  enabled  us  to  record  our  recol- 
lections of  many  writers.  Both  John  Clarke  the  school- 
master and  Vincent  Novello  the  musician,  with  their 
admirable  wives,  liberal-minded  and  intelligent  beyond 
most  of  their  time  and  calling,  delighted  in  the  society 
and  friendship  of  clever  people,  and  cultivated  those 
relations  for  their  children. 

By  nature  John  Clarke  was  gentle-hearted,  clear-headed, 
and  transparently  conscientious — supremely  suiting  him 
for  a  schoolmaster.  As  a  youth  he  was  articled  to  a 
lawyer  at  Northampton ;   but  from  the  first  he  felt   a 

B 


2  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

growing  repugnance  to  the  profession,  and  this  repugnance 
was  brought  to  unbearable  excess  by  his  having  to  spend 
one  whole  night  in  seeking  a  substitute  for  performing  the 
duty  which  devolved  upon  him  from  the  sheriff's  unwill- 
ingness to  fulfil  the  absent  executioner's  office  of  hanging 
a  culprit  condemned  to  die  on  the  following  morning. 
With  success  in  finding  a  deputy  hangman  at  dawn,  after 
a  night  of  inexpressible  agony  of  mind,  came  his  deter- 
mination to  seek  another  profession,  and  he  finally  found 
more  congenial  occupation  by  becoming  usher  at  a  school 
conducted  by  the  Rev.  John  Ryland,  Calvinistic  minister 
in  the  same  town.  My'  father's  fellow-usher  was  no  other 
than  George  Dyer  (the  erudite  and  absent-minded  Greek 
scholar  immortalized  in  Elia's  whimsical  essay  entitled 
"  Amicus  Redivivus  ");  the  one  being  the  writing-master 
and  arithmetical  teacher,  the  other  the  instructor  in  clas- 
sical languages.  Each  of  these  young  men  formed  an 
attachment  for  the  head  master's  step-daughter,  Miss  Ann 
Isabella  Stott ;  but  George  Dyer's  love  was  cherished 
secretly,  while  John  Clarke's  was  openly  declared  and  his 
suit  accepted.  The  young  couple  left  Northampton  with 
the  lady's  family  and  settled  in  Enfield,  her  step-father 
having  resolved  upon  estabhshing  a  school  near  I,ondon. 
For  this  purpose  a  house  and  grounds  were  taken  in  that 
charming  village — among  the  very  loveliest  in  England, — 
which  were  eminently  fitted  for  a  school ;  the  house  being 
airy,  roomy,  and  commodious,  the  grounds  sufficiently 
large  to  give  space  for  flower,  fruit,  and  vegetable  gardens, 
playground,  and  paddock  of  two  acres  affording  pasturage 

1  These  are  Charles  Cowden  Clarke's  reminiscences.  When 
the  first  person  plural  is  not  used  the  context  will  indicate 
whether  it  is  Charles  or  Mary  Cowden  Clarke  wlv)  speaks. 


JOHN  RYLAND.  3 

for  two  cows  that  supplied  the  establishment  with  abun- 
dant milk. 

One  of  the  earliest  figures  that  impressed  itself  upon  my 
childish  memory  was  that  of  my  step-grandfather — stout, 
rubicund,  facetious  in  manner,  and  oddly  forcible  when 
preaching.  The  pulpit  eloquence  of  John  Ryland 
strongly  partook  of  the  well-recorded  familiarities  in  ex- 
pression that  have  accompanied  the  era  of  the  all  but 
adored  Rowland  Hill.  Upon  one  occasion,  when 
delivering  a  sermon  upon  the  triumph  of  spiritual  grace 
over  Evil,  in  connexion  with  the  career  of  the  Apostle 
Paul,  John  Ryland's  sermon  concluded  thus  : — "  And  so 
the  poor  Devil  went  off  howling  to  hell,  and  all  Pande- 
monium was  hung  in  mourning  for  a  month."  His 
favourite  grace  before  meat  was  : — "  Whereas  some  have 
appetite  and  no  food,  and  others  have  food  and  no  appe- 
tite, we  thank  thee,  O  Lord,  that  we  have  both!"  Old 
Mr.  Ryland  was  acquainted  with  the  Rev.  Rowland  Hill ; 
and  once,  when  my  grandmother  expressed  a  wish  to  go 
up  to  London  and  hear  the  famous  preacher,  her  spouse 
took  her  to  the  chapel  in  the  morning  and  afterwards  to 
Rowland  Hill's  own  house,  introducing  her  to  him,  say- 
ing, "  Here's  my  wife,  who  prefers  your  sermons  to  her 
husband's  ;  so  I'll  leave  her  with  you  while  I  go  and 
preach  this  afternoon."  Between  the  old  gentleman  and 
myself  there  existed  an  affectionate  liking,  and  when  he 
died,  at  a  ripe  age,  I  declared  that  if  "  old  sir  "  (my  usual 
name  for  him)  were  taken  away  I  w^ould  go  with  him ; 
but  when  the  hearse  came  to  the  door  to  convey  the 
remains  to  Northampton,  for  burial,  according  to  the  wish 
of  the  deceased,  my  boyish  imagination  took  fright,  and  I 
ran  to  my  mother,  exclaiming,  "  I  don't  want  to  go  with 
old  sir  in  the  black  coach  ! " 

B    2 


4  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

It  has  been  said  that  *'  Every  one  should  plant  a  tree 
who  can  ;"  and  my  father  was  a  devoted  believer  in  this 
axiom.  While  still  a  little  fellow,  I  used  to  be  the  com- 
panion of  his  daily  walks  in  the  green  fields  around  oui 
dwelling  ;  and  many  a  tree  have  I  seen  him  plant.  I  had 
the  privilege  of  carrying  the  bag  containing  his  store  ot 
acorns  :  he  would  dibble  a  hole  in  the  earth  with  his 
walking-stick,  and  it  was  my  part  to  drop  an  acorn  into 
the  opening.  It  was  a  proud  day  for  me  when,  the 
walking-stick  chancing  to  snap,  I  was  permitted  to  use 
the  ivory-headed  implement,  thus  fortunately  reduced  to 
a  proper  size  for  me  ;  so  that  when  my  father  had  selected 
a  spot,  it  was  /  who  dibbled  the  hole  as  well  as  dropped 
in  the  acorn  ! 

In  many  respects  my  father  was  independent-minded 
far  in  advance  of  his  time  ;  and  an  improvement  sys- 
tematized by  him  in  the  scholastic  education  of  the  boys, 
which  testifies  the  humanity  of  his  character  as  well  as 
the  soundness  of  his  judgment,  added  considerably  to 
the  prosperity  of  his  later  career.     Instead  of  the   old 
custom  of  punishing  with  the  cane,  a  plan  was  drawn  up 
of  keeping  an  account-book,  for  and  by  each  scholar,  of 
each  performance  at  his  lessons;  "B"  for  bene,  "O" 
for  optime,  and  on  the  opposite  page  an  "  X  "  for  negli- 
gence or  wrong  conduct ;  and  rewards  were  given  at  the 
end  of  the  half-year  in  accordance  with  the  proportion  of 
good  marks  recorded.      A   plan  was  also  adopted  for 
encouraging  "voluntary"  work  in  the  recreative  hours. 
For  French  and  Latin  translations  thus  performed  first, 
second,  and  third  prizes  were  awarded  each  half-year  in 
the  shape  of  interesting  books.     John  Keats  (if  I  mistake 
not)  twice  received  the  highest  of  these  prizes.     In  his 
last  half-year  at  school  he  commenced  the  translation  of 


DR.  ALEXANDER  GEDDES.  5 

the  -^neid,  which  he  completed  while  with  his  medical 
master  at  Edmonton. 

My  father  was  intimate  with  the  celebrated  Roman 
Catholic  writer,  Dr.  Alexander  Geddes,  and  subscribed 
to  all  the  portions  of  the  Bible  that  Geddes  lived  to 
translate.  He  was  upon  equally  familiar  terms  with  Dr. 
Priestley ;  and  such  was  my  father's  Biblical  zeal  that  he 
made  a  MS.  copy  of  Bishop  Lowth's  translation  of  Isaiah, 
subjoining  a  selection  of  the  most  important  of  the  trans- 
lator's notes  to  the  text.  This  MS.,  written  in  the  most 
exquisitely  neat  and  legible  hand  (the  occasionally  occur- 
ring Hebrew  characters  being  penned  with  peculiar  care 
and  finish),  bound  in  white  vellum,  with  a  small  scarlet 
label  at  the  back,  the  slight  gilding  dulled  by  age  Ixit  the 
whole  of  the  dainty  volume  in  excellent  preservation,  is 
still  in  my  possession.  He  took  a  peculiar  interest  in  the 
work,  much  pursued  at  that  time,  of  Biblical  translation, 
and  closely  watched  the  labours  of  Gilbert  Wakefield,  the 
translator  of  the  New  Testament ;  and  the  eminent  sur- 
geon Mason  Good — a  self-educated  classic— who  pro- 
duced a  fine  version  of  Job,  the  result  of  his  Sunday 
morning's  devotion. 

I  remember  accompanying  my  father  on  one  occasion 
in  a  call  upon  Dr.  Geddes.  We  found  him  at  lunch  ;  and 
I  noticed  that  beside  his  basin  of  broth  stood  a  supply  of 
whole  mustard  seed,  of  which  he  took  alternate  spoonfuls 
with  those  of  the  broth  :  which  he  said  had  been  recom- 
mended to  him  as  a  wholesome  form  of  diet.  He  had  a 
thin,  pale  face,  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  manner ;  and 
told  us  several  droll,  odd  things  during  our  stay,  in  an 
easy,  table-talk  style.  But  Dr.  'Geddes  was  irritable  in 
controversy,  for  we  heard  from  George  Dyer  that  at  a 
party  given  by  Geddes,  at  his  lodging,  to  some  literary 


6  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

men,  the  subject  of  James  II.  arose,  and  the  Doctor  was 
so  furious  at  the  unfavourable  estimate  of  the  King's 
character  expressed  by  his  guests  that  he  kicked  over  the 
table  upon  them  in  his  wrath.  In  those  days  men's  ire 
*'  grew  fast  and  furious  "  in  discussion. 

I  was  but  a  mere  child,  wearing  the  scarlet  jacket  and 
nankeen  trousers  of  the  time,  with  a  large  frilled  cambric 
collar,  over  which  fell  a  mass  of  long,  light-brown  curls 
reaching  below  the  shoulders,  when,  encouraged  by  him- 
self and  my  father,  I  used  to  visit  Mr.  Richard  Warbur- 
ton  Lytton,  and  was  hardly  tall  enough  on  tip-toe  to 
reach  the  bell-handle  at  the  front  garden-gate.  Mr.  Lyt- 
ton, although  the  owner  of  Knebworth,  one  of  those  old- 
fashioned  mansions  built  with  as  many  windows  as  there 
are  days  in  the  year — for  some  reason  known  only  to 
himself — dwelt  for  many  years  at  Enfield,  and  afterwards 
at  Ramsgate,  where  he  died.  He  was  maternal  grand- 
father to  the  late  Lord  Bulwer  Lytton,  his  daughter 
having  married  a  Mr.  Bulwer ;  and  after  Warburton  Lyt- 
ton's  death  the  author  of  "  Pelham"  adopted  the  mater- 
nal name. 

Richard  Warburton  Lytton  was  educated  at  Harrow, 
and  latterly  attained  the  first  class,  in  which  were  himself, 
the  eminent  Sir  William  Jones,  and  Bennett,  Bishop 
of  Cloyne.  I  have  heard  my  father  say  that  Mr.  Lytton 
has  read  to  him  long  portions  of  the  Greek  histories  into 
English  with  such  clear  freedom  that  his  dialect  had  not 
the  least  effect  of  being  a  translation  made  at  the  time  of 
perusal.  He  was  a  man  of  the  most  amiable  and  liberal 
spirit.  Several  Frenchmen  having  emigrated  to  Enfield 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  Mr.  Lytton  displayed 
the  most  generous  sympathy  towards  them  ;  and  they 
were  periodically  invited  to  entertainments  at  his  house, 


RICHARD  LYTTON—ABB:^  B^LIARD.      7 

especially  on  their  fast  days  (more  properly  speaking, 
abstinence  days),  when  there  was  sure  to  be  on  his  table 
plenty  of  choice  fish.  Among  these  gentlemen  emigres 
was  a  certain  delightful  Abbe  Beliard,  who  became  French 
teacher  at  our  school,  and  who  was  so  much  esteemed 
and  even  loved  by  his  pupils  that  many  of  them  were 
grieved  almost  to  the  shedding  of  tears — an  unusual  tri- 
bute from  schoolboy  feeling — when  he  took  leave  of  them 
all  to  return  to  his  native  land.  The  bishop  of  his  dis- 
trict required  his  return  (peace  between  France  and 
England  having  been  declared),  giving  him  the  promise 
of  his  original  living.  Mr.  Lytton,  upon  visiting  Rouen, 
having  found  poor  Beliard  in  distress  (his  Diocesan 
having  forfeited  his  promise),  with  characteristic  gene- 
rosity received  his  Enfield  guest  in  his  Normandy  lodging 
till  the  abbe  had  obtained  the  relief  that  had  been 
guaranteed  to  him. 

Mr.  Lytton  had  a  very  round,  fat  face,  he  was  small- 
featured  and  fresh-coloured  ;  in  person  he  was  short,  fat, 
and  almost  unwieldy.  I  used  to  see  him,  taking  such 
exercise  as  his  corpulence  would  permit,  in  his  old- 
fashioned  so-called  "  chamber  horse  " — an  easy  chair  with 
so  rebounding  a  spring  cushion  that  it  swayed  him  up  and 
down  when  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  its  arms — while 
I  stood  watching  him  with  the  interest  of  a  child,  and 
listening  with  still  greater  interest  to  the  anecdotes  and 
stories  he  good-naturedly  related  to  me — stories  and 
anecdotes  such  as  boys  most  love  to  hear — adventurous, 
humorous,  and  wonderfully  varied. 

Another  house  in  our  vicinity  that  I  enjoyed  the  pri- 
vilege of  visiting  was'  that  of  Mr.  Holt  White,  nephew  to 
the  Rev.  Gilbert  White,  the  fascinating  historian  of  the 
parish  and  district  of  Selborne,  of  which  he  was  the  vicar. 


8  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Mr.  Holt  White  had  purchased  a  handsome  property  on 
the  borders  of  the  Chase — then  unenclosed — and  came 
there  to  reside.  He  made  the  acquaintance  of  my  father, 
and  placed  his  little  son  under  his  tuition.  Mr.  White 
was  in  person,  manner,  accomplishments,  and  intercourse 
a  graceful  specimen  of  the  ideal  aristocrat.  As  an 
author  he  was  strictly  an  amateur.  He  made  himself  one 
among  the  band  of  Shakespearian  commentators,  and  I 
have  a  slight  recollection  that  in  the  latter  period  of  his 
life  he  was  engaged  in  editing  one  of  the  Miltonian  essays 
— I  believe  the  Areopagitica.  He  also  made  an  effort  to 
be  elected  member  of  Parliament  for  Essex,  but  failed. 
His  political  opinion  was  of  a  broad  Liberal  character, 
and  one  of  his  most  intimate  associates  was  the  heartily 
respected,  the  bland  and  amiable  Major  Cartwright, 
whose  intercourse  and  personal  demeanour  in  society  and 
on  the  public  platform  secured  to  him  from  first  to  last 
the  full  toleration  of  his  political  opponents  I  used  to 
meet  Major  and  Mrs.  Cartwright  at  Mr.  Holt  White's 
house  ;  and  it  was  either  he  himself  or  Mr.  Holt  White 
who  told  me  that,  having  lost  a  formidable  sum  at  the 
gaming-table,  Cartwright  made  a  resolution  never  more 
to  touch  card  or  dice — a  resolution  that  he  faithfully 
kept.  Mrs.  Cartwright  had  a  m.erry,  chatty  way  with  her, 
and  on  one  occasion  at  dinner,  when  she  and  her  hus- 
band were  present,  I  remember,  the  conversation  having 
turned  upon  the  great  actors  and  actresses,  Mrs.  Cart- 
Avright  enlarged  upon  the  talent  of  "  the  Pritchard  "  (a 
talent  commemorated  by  Churchill,  as  overcoming  even 
the  disadvantages  of  increasing  age  and  stoutness,  in  a 
passage  containing  the  couplet — 

Before  such  merit  all  objections  fly  ; 

Pritchard's  genteel  and  Garrick's  six  feet  high)— 


HOLT  WHITE— EDWARD  HOLMES.       9 

and  on  my  asking  if  she  were  equal  in  talent  with  Mrs. 
Siddons — "  Siddons  ! "  echoed  Mrs.  Cartwright,  '*  Siddons 
was  not  fit  to  brush  Pritchard's  shoes  "  !  So  much  for  the 
passionate  partialities  of  youth. 

Mr.  Holt  White  had  an  ingenious  arrangement  by 
which  he  converted  the  more  important  works  of  his 
collected  library  into  an  extensive  and  useful  common- 
place book.  In  the  course  of  his  reading  either  an 
original  work  or  a  new  translation  of  a  celebrated  classic, 
if  he  came  upon  a  casual  and  new  opinion  upon  the 
general  character  of  an  established  author  he  would  make 
an  allusion  to  it,  and,  with  a  very  brief  quotation,  insert  it  in 
the  blank  leaves  of  the  work  referred  to.  Thus  some  of 
his  works — and  particularly  the  popular  ones — possessed 
a  fine  and  interesting  catalogue  of  approbations.  For 
the  memory  of  Mr.  Holt  White  my  gratitude  and  affection 
will  continue  with  my  days.  Such  was  my  social  freedom 
and  his  kind  licence  that  I  had  only  to  show  him  the 
volume  when  I  had  borrowed  one  of  his  books,  and  I 
had  welcome  to  help  myself  from  his  splendid  library — 
a  rare  and  incalculable  advantage  for  a  youth  of  my  age 
in  those  days. 

I  had  several  favourite  chums  among  the  boys  at  my 
father's  school ;  but  my  chief  friends  were  John  Keats, 
Edward  Holmes,  and  Edward  Cowper.  Of  the  first  I 
have  spoken  fully  in  the  set  of  "  Recollections  "  specially 
dedicated  to  him.-  The  second  I  have  mentioned  at 
some  length  in  the  same  place.  There  was  a  particularly 
intimate  school-fellowship  and  liking  between  Keats  and 
Holmes,  probably  arising  out  of  their  both  being  of  ardent 
and  imaginative  temperament,  with  a  decided  artistic 
bent  in  their  several  predilections  foi  poetry  and  music. 

■■'  See  pages  120  and  142. 


lo         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Holmes,  besides  his  passionate  adoration  of  music  and 
native  talent  for  that  art,  had  an  exquisitely  discerning 
taste  in  literature.  His  choice  in  books  was  excellent ; 
his  appreciation  of  style  in  writing  was  particularly  acute 
— his  own  style  being  remarkably  pure,  racy,  and  elegant. 
He  had  a  very  handsome  face,  with  beaming  eyes, 
regular  features,  and  an  elevated  expression.  His  mouth 
and  nose  were  large,  but  beautifully  formed.  Thick 
masses  of  sunny  biown  hair,  and  his  inspired  look,  lent 
him  the  air  of  a  young  Apollo.  We  who  remember  him 
in  youth— one  of  us  even  recollecting  him  in  child's  frock 
when  he  first  came  to  school — felt  strangely  when,  in  after 
years,  he  was  presiding  at  the  pianoforte,  and  one  of  his 
enthusiastic  young  lady  hearers  present  said,  "  Dear  old 
man  !  how  delightfully  he  plays  ! "  The  words  disen- 
chanted us  of  the  impression  we  had  somehow  retained 
that  he  was  still  young,  still  "  Ned  Holmes,"  although  the 
Phoebus  clusters  were  touched  with  grey,  and  their  gold 
was  fast  turning  to  silver. 

Edward  Cowper,  even  as  a  boy,  gave  token  of  that 
ingenuity  and  turn  for  mechanical  invention  which,  as  a 
man,  rendered  him  eminent.  I  recollect  his  fajihioning  a 
little  windmill  for  winding  the  fibre  from  off  the  cocoons 
of  the  silkworms  that  he  and  I  kept  at  school,  and 
for  winding  my  mother's  and  sisters'  skeins  of  sewing 
silk.  He  used  to  open  the  window  a  certain  width  that 
the  air  might  act  properly  upon  his  miniature  mill,  and 
would  stand  watching  with  steady  interest  the  effect  of 
setting  in  action  the  machinery.  He  was  a  lively,  brisk 
boy,  with  an  alert,  animated,  energetic  manner,  which  he 
maintained  in  manhood.  His  jocular  school-name  forme 
was  "  Three-hundred,"  in  allusion  to  my  initials,  C.  C.  C. 
He  had  a  fluent  tongue,  was  fond  of  talking,  and  could 


EDWARD  COWPER— GEORGE  DYER,    ii 

talk  well.  Once  he  joined  us  in  a  walk  through  Hyde 
Park  from  Bayswater  to  the  Marble  Arch,  where  we  took 
an  omnibus  to  the  east  end  of  Oxford  Street ;  he  deliver- 
ing a  kind  of  lecture  discourse  the  whole  way  without 
ceasing,  on  some  subject  in  which  we  were  all  interested. 
He  gave  lectures  to  young  lady  pupils  in  a  scientific  class, 
telling  us  that  he  always  found  them  especially  intelligent 
hearers,  and  we  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  present  at  a 
lecture  he  delivered  in  the  first  Crystal  Palace,  erected 
for  the  International  Exhibition  of  1 85 1,  before  it  was 
opened.  His  subject  was  the  great  strength  of  hollow 
tube  pillars,  on  the  principle  of  the  arch,  which  he  prettily 
illustrated  by  piling  up,  on  four  small  pieces  of  quill  set 
upright,  heavy  weights  one  after  another  to  an  amount 
that  seemed  incredible.  He  was  the  inventor  of  an  im- 
portant improvement  in  a  celebrated  German  printing- 
press,  brought  over  and  used  by  the  Times  newspaper ; 
and  it  was  Applegarth,  the  printer,  who  helped  him  to 
take  out  the  patent  for  this  improvement. 

Among  our  scholars  was  a  boy  named  Frank  Twiss, 
who  was  the  son  (if  I  mistake  not)  of  Richard  Twiss,  the 
author  of  various  tours  and  travels.  I  remember  the  lad 
being  visited  by  his  father,  whose  antique  courtesy  engaged 
my  boyish  notice  when,  as  he  walked  round  our  garden, 
he  held  his  hat  in  his  hand  until  my  father  begged  he 
would  put  it  on ;  upon  which  Mr.  Twiss  replied,  "  No, 
sir ;  not  while  you  are  uncovered ;"  my  father  having 
the  habit  of  often  walking  bare-headed  in  our  own 
grounds. 

While  at  Enfield  my  father  received  more  than  one 
visit  from  his  fellow-usher  in  the  old — or  rather  young — 
Northampton  days  ;  and  I  well  remember  George  Dyer's 
even  then  eccentric  ways,    under-toned  voice,   dab-dab 


12  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

mode  of  speaking,  and  absent  manner.  He  had  a  trick 
of  filling  up  his  hesitating  sentences  with  a  mild  little 
monosyllabic  sound,  and  of  finishing  his  speeches  with  the 
incomplete  phrase  "  Well,  sir ;  but  however — ."  This 
peculiarity  we  used  to  amuse  ourselves  by  imitating  when 
we  talked  of  him  and  recalled  his  oddities,  as  thus  : — 
*'  You  have  met  with  a  curious  and  rare  book,  you  say  ? 
Indeed,  sir;  abd— abd — abd — I  should  like  to  see  it, 
sir;  abd— abd — abd— perhaps  you  would  allow  me  to 
look  at  it;  abd — abd  — abd— Well,  sir  :  but  however — " 
Or:  "  You  have  been  ill,  sir,  I  hear.  Dear  me !  abd  — 
abd — abd — I'm  sorry,  I'm  sure;  abd -abd — abd — Well, 
sir ;  but  hov/ever — "  Once  when  he  came  to  see  us  he 
told  us  of  his  having  lately  spent  some  time  among  a 
wandering  tribe  of  gipsies,  he  feeling  much  desire  to 
know  something  of  the  language  and  habits  of  this 
interesting  race  of  people,  and  believing  he  could  not 
do  so  better  than  by  joining  them  in  one  of  their  rambling 
expeditions.  He  once  wrote  a  volume  of  French  poems. 
During  a  long  portion  of  his  life  his  chief  income  was 
derived  from  the  moderate  emolument  he  obtained  by 
correcting  works  of  the  classics  for  the  publishers ;  but  on 
the  death  of  Lord  Stanhope,  to  whose  son  he  had  been 
tutor,  he  was  left  residuary  legatee  by  that  nobleman, 
which  placed  him  in  comparatively  easy  circumstances. 
Dyer  was  of  a  thoroughly  noble  disposition  and  generous 
heart ;  and  beneath  that  strange  book-worm  exterior  of 
his  there  dwelt  a  finely  tender  soul,  full  of  all  warmth  and 
sympathy.  On  one  occasion,  during  his  less  prosperous 
days,  going  to  wait  at  the  coach-office  for  the  Cambridge 
stage,  by  which  he  intended  to  travel  thither,  he  met  an 
old  friend  who  was  in  great  distress.  Dj-er  gave  him  the 
half-guinea  meant  for  his  own  fare,  and  walked  down  to 


GEORGE  DYER.  13 

Cambridge  instead  of  going  by  coach.  His  delicacy, 
constancy,  and  chivalry  of  feeling  equalled  his  generosity  : 
for,  many  years  after,  when  my  father  died,  George  Dyer 
asked  for  a  private  conference  with  me,  told  me  of  his 
youthful  attachment  for  my  mother,  and  inquired  whether 
her  circumstances  were  comfortable,  because  in  case,  as  a 
widow,  she  had  not  been  left  well  off  he  meant  to  offer 
her  his  hand.  Hearing  that  in  point  of  money  she  had 
no  cause  for  concern,  he  begged  me  to  keep  secret  what 
he  had  confided  to  me,  and  he  himself  never  made 
farther  allusion  to  the  subject.  Long  subsequently  he 
married  a  very  worthy  lady  :  and  it  was  great  gratification 
to  us  to  see  how  the  old  student's  rusty  suit  of  black, 
threadbare  and  shining  with  the  shabbiness  of  neglect,  the 
limp  wisp  of  jaconot  muslin,  yellow  with  age,  round  his 
throat,  the  dusty  shoes,  and  stubbly  beard,  had  become 
exchanged  for  a  coat  that  shone  only  with  the  lustre  of 
regular  brushing,  a  snow-white  cravat  neatly  tied  on, 
brightly  blacked  shoes,  and  a  close-shaven  chin — the  whole 
man  presenting  a  cosy  and  burnished  appearance,  like 
one  carefully  and  affectionately  tended.  He,  like  Charles 
Lamb,  always  wore  black  smalls,  black  stockings  (which 
Charles  Lamb  generally  covered  with  high  black  gaiters), 
and  black  shoes;  the  knee-smalls  and  the  shoes  both 
being  tied  with  strings  instead  of  fastened  with  buckles. 
His  hair,  white  and  stiff,  glossy  at  the  time  now  spoken 
of  from  due  administration  of  comb  and  brush,  contrasted 
strongly  with  a  pair  of  small  dark  eyes,  worn  with  much 
poring  over  Greek  and  black-letter  characters ;  while  even 
at  an  advanced  age  there  was  a  sweet  look  of  kindliness, 
simple  goodness,  serenity,  and  almost  child-like  guileless- 
ness  that  characteristically  marked  his  face  at  all  periods 
of  his  life. 


14  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Before  leaving  Enfield  I  used  often  to  walk  up  to  town 
from  my  father's  house  of  an  afternoon  in  good  time  to 
go  to  the  theatre,  and  walk  back  after  the  play  was  over, 
in  order  to  be  ready  for  my  morning  duties  when  I  had 
become  usher  in  the  school.  Dark  and  solitary  enough 
were  the  "  Green  Lanes,"  as  they  were  called,  that  lay 
between  Holloway  and  Enfield — through  picturesque 
Hornsey,  rural  Wood  Green,  and  hedge-rowed  Winchmore 
Hill — when  traversed  in  the  small  hours  past  midnight. 
Yet  I  knew  every  foot  of  the  way,  and  generally  pursued 
that  track  as  the  nearest  for  the  pedestrian.  I  seldom 
met  a  soul ;  but  once  a  fellow  who  had  been  lying  under 
a  hedge  by  the  way-side  started  up  and  began  following 
me  more  nearly  than  I  cared  to  have  him,  so  I  put  on 
my  cricketing  speed  and  ran  forward  with  a  swiftness 
that  few  at  that  time  could  outstrip,  and  which  soon  left 
my  would-be  co-nightranger  far  behind.  Well  worth  the 
fatigue  of  a  twelve-mile  walk  there  and  another  back  was 
to  me  then  the  glorious  delight  of  seeing  Mrs.  Siddons  as 
Lady  Macbeth  or  Queen  Constance  (though  at  a  period 
when  she  had  lost  her  pristine  shapeliness  of  person,  for 
she  had  become  so  bulky  as  to  need  assistance  to  rise 
from  the  ground  in  the  scene  where  she  throws  herself 
there  as  her  throne,  bidding  '•'  kings  come  bow  to  it ")  ! 
of  seeing  Miss  O'Niel  as  Juliet,  Belvidere,  Monimia,  and 
such  tender  heroines,  which  she  played  and  looked 
charmingly  ;  of  seeing  John  Kemble  as  Coriolanus  or 
Brutus,  which  he  impersonated  with  true  stateliness  and 
dignity  both  of  person  and  manner.  But  the  greatest 
crowning  of  my  eager  "  walks  up  to  town  to  go  to  the 
play  "  was  when  Edmund  Kean  came  upon  the  London 
stage:  and  I  saw  him  in  all  his  first  perfection.  The 
way  in  which  he  electrified  the  town  by  his  fire,   his 


EDMUND  KEAN.  15 

energy,  his  vehement  expression  of  natural  emotion  and 
passion,  in  such  characters  as  Othello  (in  my  opinion  his 
masterpiece  during  his  early  and  mature  career),  Lear, 
Hamlet,  Richard  III.,  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  Sir  Edmund 
Mortimer,  and  Shylock  (certainly  his  grandest  perfor- 
mance in  his  latter  days),  after  the  comparatively  cold 
and  staid  propriety  of  John  Kemble,  was  a  thing  never 
to  be  forgotten.  Such  was  the  enthusiasm  of  his  audi- 
ences that  the  pit-door  at  as  early  an  hour  as  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  used  to  be  clustered  round,  like 
the  entrance  to  a  hive  of  bees,  by  a  crowd  of  playgoers 
determined  to  get  places;  and  I  had  to  obtain  extra 
leave  for  quitting  school  early  to  make  me  one  among 
them.  The  excitement  rose  to  feve  -pitch  wdien — about 
two  years  after  Kean's  first  appearance  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre — and  Booth  had  been  "  starring  it  "  as  his  rival 
at  Covent  Garden — it  was  announced  that  the  two  stage- 
magnates  were  to  act  together  in  the  same  play,  Shake- 
speare's perhaps  grandest  tragedy  being  selected  for  the 
purpose — Booth  playing  lago  to  Kean's  Othello.  Both 
tragedians,  of  course,  exerted  themselves  to  their  utmost, 
and  acted  their  finest ;  and  the  result  was  a  triumph  of 
performance.  The  house  was  crammed  ;  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  theatrical  patrons,  the  most  eminent  among 
literary  men  and  critics,  being  present.  I  remember 
Godwin,  on  coming  out  of  the  house,  exclaiming,  rap- 
turously, "  This  is  a  night  to  be  remembered !" 


i6         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


CHAPTER  11. 

Leigh  Hunt — Henry  Robertson — Frederick,  William,  Henry, 
and  John  Byng  Gattie — Charles  Oilier — Tom  Richards  — 
Thomas  Moore — Barnes — Vincent  Novello — John  Keats- 
Charles  and  Mary  Lamb — Wageman — Rev.  W.  V.  Fryer — • 
George  and  Charles  Gliddon — Henry  Robertson — Dowtcn 
• — Mrs.  Vincent  Novello — Horace  Twiss — Shelley — Walter 
Coulson. 

The  elder  of  my  two  sisters  having  married  and  settled 
in  London,  I  was  now  able  to  enjoy  something  of  metro- 
politan society,  and  to  indulge  in  the  late  hours  it 
necessarily  required  me  to  keep,  by  sleeping  at  my 
brother-in-law's  house,  after  an  evening  spent  with  such 
men  as  I  now  had  the  privilege  of  meeting.  I  was  first 
introduced  to  Leigh  Hunt  at  a  party,  when  I  remember 
he  sang  a  cheery  sea-song  with  much  spirit  in  that  sweet, 
small,  baritone  voice  which  he  possessed.  His  manner — 
fascinating,  animated,  full  of  cordial  amenity,  and  winning 
to  a  degree  of  which  1  have  never  seen  the  parallel — 
drew  me  to  him  at  once,  and  I  fell  as  pronely  in  love 
with  him  as  any  girl  in  her  teens  falls  in  love  with  her 
first-seen  Romeo.  My  father  had  taken  in  the  Examiner 
newspaper  from  its  commencement,  he  and  I  week  after 
week  revelling  in  the  liberty-loving,  liberty-advocating, 
liberty-eloquent  articles  of  the  young  editor;  and  now 
thai    1  made   his  personal  acquaintance  I  was  indeed 


LEIGH  HUNT—HENR  Y  H  OBER  TSON.    1 7 

a  proud  and  happy  fellow.  The  company  among  which 
I  frequently  encountered  him  were  co-visitors  of  no  small 
merit.  Henry  Robertson — one  of  the  most  delightful  of 
associates  for  good  temper,  good  spirits,  good  taste  in  all 
things  literary  and  artistic;  the  brothers  Gattie — Frederick, 
William,  Henry,  and  John  Byng  Gattie,  whose  agreeable 
tenor  voice  is  commemorated  in  Hunt's  sonnet  addressed 
to  two  of  the  men  now  under  mention,  and  a  third,  of 
whom  more  presently;  Charles  Oilier — author  of  a  grace- 
ful book  called  "  Altham  and  his  Wife,"  and  publisher  of 
Keats'  first  brought-out  volume  of  "  Poems  ;"  and  Tom 
Richards — a  right  good  comrade,  a  capital  reader,  a 
capital  listener,  a  capital  appreciator  of  talent  and  of 
genius. 

My  father  so  entirely  sympathized  with  my  devotedl 
admiration  of  Leigh  Hunt,  that  when,  not  very  long  aftei 
I  had  made  his  acquaintance,  he  was  thrown  into  Horse- 
monger  Lane  Gaol  for  his  libel  on  the  Prince  Regent, 
I  was  seconded  in  my  wish  to  send  the  captive  Liberal 
a  breath  of  open  air,  and  a  reminder  of  the  country  plea- 
sures he  so  well  loved  and  could  so  well  describe,  by  my 
father's  allowing  me  to  despatch  a  weekly  basket  of 
fresh  flowers,  fruit,  and  vegetables  from  our  garden  at 
Enfield.  Leigh  Hunt  received  it  with  his  own  peculiar 
grace  of  acceptance,  recognizing  the  sentiment  that 
prompted  the  offering,  and  welcoming  it  into  the  spot 
which  he  had  converted  from  a  prison-room  into  a  bower 
for  a  poet  by  covering  the  walls  with  a  rose-trellised 
papering,  by  book-shelves,  plaster  casts,  and  a  small 
pianoforte.  Here  I  was  also  made  welcome,  and  my 
visits  cordially  received ;  and  here  it  was  that  I  once 
met  Thomas  Moore,  and  on  another  occasion  Barnes, 
the   then   sub-editor   of  the   Times  newspaper,   "whose 

c 


1 8  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

native  taste,  solid  and  clear,"  Leigh  Hunt  has  recorded 
in  a  charming  sonnet.  Barnes  had  been  a  schoolfellow 
of  Leigh  Hunt's  at  Christ's  Hospital :  he  was  a  man  of 
\  sound  ability,  yet  with  a  sense  of  the  absurd  and  humor- 
\  ous  ;  for  Leigh  Hunt  told  me  that  a  foolish  woman  once 
asking  Barnes  whether  he  were  fond  of  children,  received 
the  answer,  "  Yes,  ma'am  ;  boiled." 

It  was  not  until  after  Leigh  Hunt  left  prison  that  my 
father  saw  him,  and  then  but  once.  My  father  and  I 
had  gone  to  see  Kean  in  "  Timon  of  Athens,"  and  as  we 
sat  together  in  the  pit  talking  over  the  extraordinary 
vitality  of  the  impersonation — the  grandeur  and  poetry  in 
Kean's  indignant  wrath,  withering  scorn,  wild  melancholy, 
embittered  tone,  and  passionate  despondency — Leigh 
Hunt  joined  us  and  desired  me  to  present  him  to  my 
father,  who,  after  even  the  first  few  moments,  found  him- 
self deeply  enthralled  by  that  bewitching  spell  of  manner 
which  characterized  Leigh  Hunt  beyond  any  man  I  have 
ever  known. 

I  cannot  decidedly  name  the  year  when  I  was  first 
made  acquainted  with  the  man  whose  memory  I  prize 
after  that  only  of  my  own  father.  The  reader  will 
doubtless  surmise  that  I  am  alluding  to  my  father-in-law, 
the  golden-hearted  musician  Vincent  Novello.  It  was,  I 
believe,  at  the  lodging  of  Henry  Robertson  —  a  Treasury 
Office  clerk,  and  the  appointed  accountant  of  Covent 
Garden  Theatre.  My  introduction  was  so  informal  that 
it  is  not  improbable  my  acquaintance  with  Leigh  Hunt 
may  have  been  known,  and  this  produced  so  agreeable 
an  interchange  of  courtesy  that  a  day  or  two  after,  upon 
meeting  Mr.  Novello  in  Holborn,  near  Middle  Row,  I 
recollected  having  that  day  purchased  a  copy  of  Purcell's 
song   in  the    "  Tempest,"    "  Full   Fathom  Five,"    and 


v:ncent  no  fell  o.  i  9 

observing  that  the  symphony  had  only  the  bass  notes 
figured,  I  asked  him  to  have  the  kindness  to  write  the 
harmonies  for  me  in  the  correct  chords  more  legible  to 
my  limited  knowledge  of"  music.  His  immediate  answer 
was  that  he  " would  take  it  home  with  him  ]'  and,  with 
an  unmistakable  smile,  he  desired  me  to  come  for  it  on 
the  morrow  to  240,  Oxford  Street,  where  he  then  resided. 
This  was  the  opening  of  the  proudest  and  the  happiest 
period  of  my  existence.  The  glorious  feasts  of  sacred 
nmsic  at  the  Portuguese  Chapel  in  South  Street,  Gros- 
venor  Square,  where  Vincent  Novello  was  organist,  and 
introduced  the  masses  of  Mozart  and  Haydn  for  the  first 
time  in  England,  and  where  the  noble  old  Gregorian 
hymn  tunes  and  responses  were  chanted  to  perfection  by 
a  small  but  select  choir  drilled  and  cultivated  by  him  ; 
the  exquisite  evenings  of  Mozartian  operatic  and  chamber 
music  at  Vincent  Novello's  own  house,  where  Leigh 
Hunt,  Shelley,  Keats,  and  the  Lambs  were  invited 
guests ;  the  brilliant  supper  parties  at  the  alternate  dwell- 
ings of  the  Novellos,  the  Hunts,  and  the  Lambs,  who 
had  mutually  agreed  that  bread  and  cheese,  with  celery, 
and  Elia's  immortalized  "  Lutheran  beer,"  were  to  be  the 
sole  cates  provided  ;  the  meetings  at  the  theatre,  when 
Munden,  Dowton,  Liston,  Bannister,  EUiston,  and  Fanny 
Kelly  were  on  the  stage  ;  and  the  picnic  repasts  enjoyed 
together  by  appointment  in  the  fields  that  then  lay  spread 
in  green  breadth  and  luxuriance  between  the  west-end  of 
Oxford  Street  and  the  western  slope  of  Hampstead  Hill 
— are  things  never  to  be  forgotten.  Vmcent  Novello 
fully  shared  my  enthusiastic  admiration  for  Leigh  Hunt ; 
and  it  was  at  the  period  of  the  poet-patriot's  leavhig 
prison  that  his  friend  the  poetical  musician  asked  Leigh 
Hunt  to  sit  for  his  portrait  to  Wagemaa,  the  artist  who 

c  2 


2  0  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  V/RITERS. 

was  famed  for  taking  excellent  likenesses  in  pencil-sketch 
style.  One  of  these  pre-eminently  good  likenesses  is  a 
drawing  made  by  Wageman  of  the  Rev.  William  Victor 
Fryer,  Head  Chaplain  to  the  Portuguese  Embassy,  to 
whom  Vincent  Novello's  first  published  work — "'A  Col- 
lection of  Sacred  Music"* — was  dedicated,  who  stood 
!::od-father  to  Vincent  Novello's  eldest  child,  and  who 
was  not  only  a  preacher  of  noted  suavity  and  eloquence, 
but  a  man  of  elegant  reading,  refined  taste,  and  most 
polished  manners.  The  drawing  (representing  Mr.  Fryer 
in  his  priest's  robes,  in  the  pulpit,  with  his  hand  raised, 
according  to  his  wont  when  about  to  commence  his 
sermon)  is  still  in  our  possession,  as  is  that  of  Leigh  Hunt ; 
the  latter— a  perfect  resemblance  of  him  as  a  j'oung  man, 
jwith  his  jet-black  hair  and  his  lustrous,  dark  eyes,  full  of 
mingled  sweetness,  penetration,  and  ardour  of  thought, 
with  exalted  imagination — has  for  many  years  held  its 
place  by  our  bedside  in  company  with  the  portraits  of 
Keats,  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Jerrold,  Dickens,  and 
some  of  our  own  lost  and  loved  honoured  ones,  nearer 
and  dearer  still. 

Vincent  Novello  had  a  mode  of  making  even  simplest 
every-day  objects  matter  for  pleasant  entertainment  and 
amusing  instruction  ;  and  the  mention  of  the  consentedly 
restricted  viands  of  those  ever- to-be-remembered  suppei 
meals,  reminds  me  of  an  instance.  As  "bread-and 
cheese  "  was  the  stipulated  "  only  fare "  on  these  occa- 
sions, Vincent  Novello  {who  knew  Leigh  Hunt's  love  for 
Italy  and  all  things  pertaining  thereto)  bethought  him 
of  introducing  an  Italian  element  into  the  British  repasts, 
In  the  shape  of  Parmesan,  a  comparative  rarity  in  those 
days.  He  accordingly  took  one  of  his  children  with  him 
to  an  Italian  warehouse  kept  by  a  certain  Bassano,  who 


3fRS.   VINCENT  NO  VELLO.  21 

formed  a  fitting  representative  of  his  race,  renowned  for 
well-cut  features,  rich  facial  colouring,  and  courteous 
manner.  Even  now  the  look  of  Signor  Bassano,  with  his 
spare  but  curly,  dark  hair,  thin,  chiselled  nose,  olive  com- 
plexion, and  well-bred  demeanour,  remains  impressed  on 
the  memory  of  her  who  heard  her  father  address  the 
Italian  in  his  own  language  and  afterwards  tell  her  of 
Italy  and  its  beautiful  scenery,  of  Italians  and  their 
personal  beauty.  She  still  can  see  the  flasks  labelled 
"  finest  Lucca  oil "  ranged  in  the  shop,  relative  to  which 
her  father  took  the  opportunity  of  feeding  her  fancy  and 
mind  with  accounts  of  how  the  oil  and  even  wirre  of  that 
graceful  country  were  mostly  kept  in  flasks  such  as  she 
then  saw,  with  slender  but  strong  handles  of  dried,  grassy 
fibre,  and  corked  by  morsels  of  snowy,  cotton  wool. 

This  "  Lucca  oil "  made  an  element  in  the  delicious 
fare  provided  for  a  certain  open-air  party  and  prepared 
by  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Novello  herself,  consisting  of  a 
magnificently  well-jellied  meat  pie,  cold  roast  lamb,  .and 
a  salad,  the  conveyance  of  which  to  the  spot  where  the 
assembly  met  was  considered  to  be  a  marvel  of  ingenious 
management ;  a  salad  being  a  thing,  till  then,  unheard  of 
in  the  annals  of  picnic  provision.  The  modest  wines  of 
orange  and  ginger— in  the  days  when  duty  upon  foreign 
importations  amounted  to  prohibitory  height — more  than 
sufficed  for  quafters  who  knew  in  books  such  vintages  as 
Horace's  Falernian,  and  Redi's  Chianti  and  Montepul- 
ciano,  whose  intellectual  palates  were  familiar  with  Mil- 
ton's— 

Wines  of  Setia,  Cales,  and  Falerne, 

Chios,  and  Crete  ; 

or  whose  imaginations  could  thirst  "  for  a  beaker  full  ol 
the  warm  Scuth,"  and  behold — 


22  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS, 

Tlie  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  ^vinking  at  the  brim 

And  purple-stained  mouth. 

This  memorable  out-door  revel  originated  in  one  of  the 
Novdlo  children  having  the  option  given  to  her  of  celebrat- 
ing her  birthday  by  a  treat  of  "going  to  the  play,"  or  "a 
day  in  the  fields."  After  grave  consideration  and  solemn 
consultation  with  her  brothers  and  sisters,  the  latter  was 
chosen,  because  the  month  was  June  and  the  weather 
transcendently  beautiful.  The  large  and  happy  party 
was  to  consist  of  the  whole  Novello  family,  Hunt  family, 
and  Gliddon  family,  who  were  to  meet  at  an  appointed 
hour  in  some  charming  meadows  leading  up  to  Hampstead. 
"  The  young  Gliddons "  were  chiefly  known  to  the 
young  Novellos  as  surpassingly  good  dancers  at  their 
interchanged  juvenile  balls,  and  as  super-excellently  good 
rompers  at  their  interchanged  birthday  parties  ,  but  one 
of  the  members  of  the  family,  George  Gliddon,  became 
celebrated  in  England  for  his  erudition  concerning  Egyp- 
tian hieroglyphics,  and  in  America  for  his  lectures  on 
this  subject ;  while  his  son  Charles  has  since  made 
himself  known  by  his  designs  for  illustrated  books.  The 
children  frolicked  about  the  fields  and  had  agile  games 
among  themselves,  while  their  elders  sat  on  the  turf 
enjoying  talk  upon  all  kinds  of  gay  and  jest-provoking 
subjects.  To  add  to  the  mirth  of  the  meeting,  Henry 
Robertson  and  I  were  asked  to  join  them  ;  both  being 
favourites  with  the  youngsters,  both  possessing  the  live- 
liest of  spirits,  and  known  to  be  famous  promoters  of  fun 
and  hilarity.  To  crown  the  pleasure  Leigh  Hunt,  as  he 
lay  stretched  on  the  grass,  read  out  to  the  assembled 
group,  old  and  young — or  rather,  growing  and  grown  up 
— the  Dogberry  scenes  from  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing," 


LEIGH  HUNT.  23 

till  the  place  rang  with  shouts  and  shrieks  of  laughter. 
Leigh  Hunt's  reading  aloud  was  pre-eminently  good. 
Varied  in  tone  and  inflection  of  voice,  unstudied,  natural, 
characteristic,  full  of  a  keen  sense  of  the  humour  of  the 
scenes  and  the  wit  of  the  dialogue,  his  dramatic  read- 
ing was  almost  unequalled  :  and  we  can  remember  his 
perusal  of  the  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  scenes  in  Sheridan's 
"  Rivals,"  and  Foote's  farce  of  "  The  Liar,"  as  pieces  of 
uproarious  merriment.  Even  Dowton  himself — and  his 
acted  impersonation  of  Sir  Anthony  was  a  piece  of  won- 
derful truth  for  towering  wrath  and  irrational  fury — 
hardly  surpassed  Leigh  Hunt's  reading  of  the  part,  so 
masterly  a  rendering  was  it  of  old-gentlemanly  wilfulness 
and  comedy-father  whirlwind  of  raging  tyranny.  The 
underlying  zest  in  roguery  of  gallantry  and  appreciation 
of  beauty  that  mark  old  Absolute's  character  were  de- 
lightfully indicated  by  Leigh  Hunt's  delicate  as  well  as 
forcible  mode  of  utterance,  and  carried  his  hearers  along 
with  him  in  a  trance  of  excitement  while  he  read. 

Having  referred  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Novello's  long-famed 
meat -pie  and  salad,  I  will  here  "  make  recordation  "  of 
two  skilled  brewages  for  which  she  was  renowned  :  to 
wit,  elder  wine — racy,  fragrant  with  spice,  steaming  with 
comfortable  heat,  served  in  taper  glasses  with  accom- 
panying rusks  or  slender  slices  of  toasted  bread — and 
foaming  wassail-bowl,  brought  to  table  in  right  old  Eng- 
lish style,  with  roasted  crab  apples  (though  these  were 
held  to  be  less  good  in  reality  than  as  a  tribute  to  antique 
British  usage) :  both  elder  wine  and  wassail-bowl  excel- 
lently ministering  to  festive  celebration  at  the  Novellos' 
Christmas,  New  Year,  and  Twelfth  Night  parties.  Mrs. 
Vincent  Novello  was  a  woman  of  Nature's  noblest 
mould.       Housewifely — nay,    actively  domestic    in   her 


24  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

daily  duties,  methodical  to  a  nicety  in  all  her  home 
arrangements,  nurse  and  instructress  to  her  large  family 
of  children — she  was  nevertheless  ever  ready  to  sym- 
pathize with  her  husband's  highest  tastes,  artistic  and 
literary ;  to  read  to  him  when  he  returned  home  after 
a  long  day's  teaching  and  required  absolute  rest,  or  to 
converse  with  him  on  subjects  that  occupied  his  eager  and 
alert  mind.  Not  only  could  she  read  and  converse  with 
spirit  and  brilliancy,  but  she  wrote  with  much  grace  and 
fancy.  At  rarely-gained  leisure  moments  her  pen  pro- 
duced several  tasteful  Tales,  instinct  with  poetic  idea 
and  romantic  imagery.  She  had  an  elegant  talent  for 
verse,  some  of  her  lines  having  been  set  to  music  by  her 
husband.  She  was  godmother  to  Leigh  Hunt's  Indicator^ 
supplying  him  with  the  clue  to  the  information  which  he 
embodied  in  the  first  motto  to  that  periodical,^  and  sug- 
gesting the  felicitous  title  which  he  adopted.  Mrs. 
Novello  contributed  a  paper  to  the  Indicator,  entitled 
"  Holiday  Children,"  and  signed  "An  Old  Boy;"  also 
some  papers  to  Leigh  Hunt's  Tatler  and  a  large  portion 
of  a  novel  (in  letters),  which  was  left  a  fragment  in  con- 
sequence of  this  serial  coming  to  an  abrupt  close.     Per- 

>  "There  is  a  bird  in  the  interior  of  Africa  whose  habits 
would  rather  seem  to  belong  to  the  interior  of  Fairyland,  but 
they  have  been  well  authenticated.  It  indicates  to  honey- 
hunters  where  the  nests  of  wild  bees  are  to  be  found.  It 
calls  them  with  a  cheerful  cry,  which  they  answer  ;  and  on 
finding  itself  recognized,  flies  and  hovers  over  a  hollow  tree 
containing  the  honey.  While  they  are  occupied  in  collecting 
it,  the  bird  goes  to  a  little  distance,  where  he  observes  all  that 
passes  ;  and  the  hunters,  when  they  have  helped  themselves, 
take  care  to  leave  him  his  portion  of  the  food.  This  is  the 
Cuculus  Indicator  of  Linnaeus,  otherwise  called  tJie  Moroc, 
Bee  Cuckoo,  or  Honey  Bird." 


HORACE  TWTSS— SHELLEY.  25 

fectly  did  Mrs.  Vincent  Novello  confirm  the  assertion 
that  the  most  intellectual  and  cultivated  women  are 
frequently  the  most  gentle,  unassuming,  and  proficient 
housewives  ;  for  few  of  even  her  intimate  friends  were 
aware  that  she  was  an  authoress,  so  perpetually  was  she 
found  occupied  with  her  husband  and  her  children. 
Horace  Twiss,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  Novellos 
and  often  visited  them  at  their  house  in  Oxford  Street, 
near  Hyde  Park,  proclaimed  himself  a  devoted  admirer 
of  Mary  Sabilla  Novello,  as  the  next  among  women  to 
Mary  Wolstonecraft,  with  whom  he  was  notedly  and 
avowedly  "  deeply  smitten."  He  used  to  knock  at  the 
door,  and,  when  it  was  opened,  inquire  whether  he  could 
see  Mrs.  Novello  ;  while  she,  from  the  front-parlour — 
which  was  dedicated  to  the  children's  use  as  nursery  and 
play-room—  hearing  his  voice,  and  being  generally  too 
busy  of  a  morning  with  them  to  receive  visitors,  would 
put  her  head  forth  from  amid  her  young  flock,  and  call 
out  to  him,  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  '  I'm  not  at  home 
to-day,  Mr.  Twiss  !  "  Upon  which  he  would  raise  his 
hat  and  retire,  declaring  that  she  was  more  than  ever 
adorable. 

Over  the  low  blind  of  that  front-parlour  and  nursery 
play-room  window  the  eldest  of  the  young  Novellos 
peeped  on  a  certain  afternoon  to  see  pass  into  the  street 
a  distinguished  guest,  whom  she  heard  had  been  in  the 
drawing-room  upstairs  to  visit  her  parents.  She  watched 
for  the  opening  of  the  street  door,  and  then  quickly 
climbed  on  to  a  chair  that  she  might  catch  sight  of  the 
young  poet  spoken  so  highly  and  honouringly  of  by  her 
father  and  mother — Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  She  saw  him 
move  lightly  down  the  two  or  three  stone  steps  from  the 
entrance,  and  as   he  went  past  the  front  of  the  house  he 


26         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

suddenly  looked  up  at  it,  revealing  fully  to  view  his 
beautiful  poet-face,  with  its  clear,  blue  eyes  surmounted 
by  an  aureole  of  gold-brown  hair. 

It  was  at  Leigh  Hunt's  cottage  in  the  Vale  of  Health, 
on  Hampstead  Heath,  that  I  first  met  Shelley  ;  and  I 
remember  our  all  three  laughing  at  the  simplicity  of  his 
imagining — in  his  ignorance  of  journals  and  journal  con- 
struction— that  Leigh  Hunt  wrote  the  whole  of  the 
Exajuiner  himself— right  through — "  Money  Market," 
*'  Price  of  Coals,"  and  all  !  On  another  occasion  I 
recollect  a  very  warm  argument  in  favour  of  the  Mon- 
archy upheld  by  Leigh  Hunt  and  Coulson,  and  in  favour 
of  Republicanism  by  Shelley  and  Hazlitt. 

Walter  Coulson  was  editor  of  the  Globe  newspaper. 
He  was  a  Cornish  man :  and  these  "  pestilent  knaves  " 
of  wits  used  to  tease  him  about  "  The  Giant  Cormoran," 
some  traditionary  magnate  oi  his  native  country  whose 
prowess  he  was  supposed  to  exaggerate.  They  never- 
theless acknowledged  Coulson  to  be  almost  boundless  in 
his  varied  extent  of  knowledge,  calling  him  "  a  walking 
Encyclopsedia  ; "  and  once  agreed  that  next  time  he 
came  he  should  be  asked  three  questions  on  widely  diffe- 
rent subjects,  laying  a  wager  that  he  would  be  sure  to  be 
able  to  give  a  satisfactory  answer  upon  each  and  all — which 
he  did.  If  my  memory  rightly  serve  me,  the  questions 
were  these  : — The  relative  value  of  gold  coin  in  India 
with  sterling  money  ?  The  mode  of  measuring  the 
cubic  feet  contained  in  the  timber  of  a  tree  ?  And  some 
moot  point  of  correctness  in  one  of  the  passages  from  an 
ancient  classic  poet 

It  was  on  a  bright  afternoon  in  the  early  days  of  my 
visits  to  Leigh  Hunt  at  the  Vale  of  Health  that  the 
authors  of  these  "  Recollections  "  first  saw  each  other. 


WAITER  COULSON.  27 

Had  some  prescient  spirit  whispered  in  the  ear  of  each 
in  turn,  "  You  see  your  future  wife  ! "  and,  "  That  is 
your  future  husband !"  the  prediction  would  have  seemed 
passing  strange.  I  was  in  the  fresh  flush  of  proud  and 
happy  friendship  Avith  such  men  as  Leigh  Hunt  and 
those  whom  I  met  at  his  house,  thoroughly  absorbed  in 
the  intellectual  treats  I  thus  constantly  enjoyed ;  while 
she  was  a  little  girl  brought  by  her  parents  for  a  day's  run 
on  the  Heath  with  the  Hunt  children,  thinking  that 
"  Charles  Clarke  " — as  she  heard  him  called — was  "  a 
good-natured  gentleman,"  because,  when  evening  came 
and  there  was  a  proposal  for  her  staying  on  a  few  days  at 
Hampstead,  he  threw  in  a  confirmatory  word  by  saying, 
"  Do  let  her  stay,  Mrs.  Novello ;  the  air  of  the  Heath 
has  already  brought  more  roses  into  her  cheeks  than 
were  there  a  few  hours  ago." 

It  must  have  been  a  full  decade  after  our  first  meeting: 
that  we  began  to  think  of  each  other  with  any  feeling  of 
deeper  preference ;  and  during  those  ten  years  much 
that  profoundly  interested  me  took  place  ;  while  events 
occurred  that  carried  me  away  from  London  and  literary 
associates.  When  my  father  retired  from  the  school  at 
Enfield,  he  went  to  live  in  the  Isle  of  Thanet,  taking 
a  house  at  Ramsgate,  where  he  and  my  mother  had 
frequently  before  made  pleasant  sea-side  sojourns  during 
"  the  holidays."  Here  my  younger  sister  and  myself 
dwelt  with  our  parents  for  a  somewhat  long  period ;  and 
it  was  while  we  were  at  Ramsgate  that  I  remember  hear- 
ing of  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister  being  at  Margate  for 
a  "  sea  change,"  and  I  went  over  to  see  them.  It  seems 
as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  that  I  noted  his  eager  way  of 
telling  me  about  an  extraordinarily  large  whale  that  had 
been  captui'ed  there,  of  its  having  created  lively  interest 


28         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

in  the  place,  of  its  having  been  conveyed  away  in  a 
strong  cart,  on  which  it  lay  a  huge  mass  of  colossal  height; 
when  he  added  with  one  of  hi?  sudden  droll  penetrating 
glances  : — The  eye  has  just  gone  past  our  window. 

I  was  at  Ramsgate  when  Leigh  Hunt  started  the 
"  Literary  Pocket-Book,"  asking  his  friends  for  prose  and 
verse  contributions  to  that  portion  of  its  contents  "  hich 
was  to  form  one  of  its  distinguishing  characteristics  from 
hitherto  published  pocket-books.  I  was  among  those  to 
whom  he  applied  ;  and  it  was  with  no  small  elation  that 
I  found  myself  for  the  first  time  in  print  under  the 
wing  of  Leigh  Hunt.  The  work  appeared  in  red 
morocco  case  for  four  consecutive  years,  1819,  '20,  '21, 
and  '22,  in  the  second  of  which  he  put  No.  I  of 
"  Walks  round  London,"  where  I  described  my  favourite 
haunts  to  the  south-west  of  Enfield,  and  contributed  a 
small  verse-piece  entitled  "  On  Visiting  a  Beautiful  Little 
Dell  near  Margate,"  both  signed  with  my  initials.  Under 
various  signatures  of  Greek  characters  and  Roman 
capitals,  Shelley,  Keats,  Procter  ("Barry  Cornwall"), 
Charles  Oilier,  and  others,  together  with  Leigh  Hunt 
himself,  contributed  short  poems  and  brief  prose  pieces 
to  the  "  Literary  Pocket-Book ;"  so  that  I  ventured 
forth  into  the  world  of  letters  in  most  "worshipful 
society." 

Leigh  Hunt  afterwards  paid  me  a  visit  at  Ramsgate, 
when  the  ship  in  which  he  and  his  family  were  sailing  for 
Italy  put  into  the  harbour  from  stress  of  weather ;  and 
it  was  on  this  occasion  that  my  mother — who  had  long 
witnessed  my  own  and  my  father's  enthusiasm  for  Leigh 
Hunt,  but  had  never  much  shared  it,  not  having  seen 
him — now  at  once  underst^-'d  the  fascination  he  exer- 
cised  over  those   who  came   into  personal  communion 


JOHN  KEATS.  29 

with  him.  "  He  is  a  gentleman,  a  perfect  gentleman, 
Charles  !  He  is  irresistible  ! "  was  her  first  exclamation 
to  me,  when  he  had  left  us. 

Another  visitor  made  his  appearance  at  Ramsgate, 
giving  me  vivid  but  short-lived  delight.  Vincent  Novello, 
whose  health  had  received  a  severe  shock  in  losing  a 
favourite  boy,  Sydney,  was  advised  to  try  what  a  complete 
change  would  do  towards  restoration,  and  he  came  down 
with  the  intention  of  staying  a  few  days ;  but,  finding 
that  some  old  friends  of  my  father  and  mother  were  on 
a  visit  to  us,  his  habitual  shyness  of  strangers  took 
possession  of  him,  and  he  returned  to  town,  having 
scarcely  more  than  shaken  hands  with  me. 

Not  long  after  that,  anguish  kindred  to  his  assailed 
me.  In  the  December  of  1820  I  lost  my  revered  and 
beloved  father ;  and  in  the  following  February  my  friend 
and  schoolfellow  John  Keats  died. 


30         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge — Jefferson  Hogg — Henry  Crabbe 
Robinson — Bryan  Waller  Procter  ("  Barry  Cornwall  ") — 
Godwin — Mrs.  Shelley — Mrs.  Williams — Francis  Novello 
— Henry  Robertson — Edward  Holmes — Mary  Lamb — 
The  honourable  Mrs.  Norton — Countess  of  Blessington. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  182 1  that  I  first  beheld  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge.  It  was  on  the  East  Clifif  at  Ramsgate. 
He  was  contemplating  the  sea  under  its  most  attractive 
aspect  :  in  a  dazzling  sun,  with  sailing  clouds  that  drew 
their  purple  shadows  over  its  bright  green  floor,  and  a 
merry  breeze  of  sufficient  prevalence  to  emboss  each 
wave  with  a  silvery  foam.  He  might  possibly  have 
composed  upon  the  occasion  one  of  the  most  philoso- 
phical, and  at  the  same  time  most  enchanting,  of  his 
fugitive  reflections,  which  he  has  entitled  "  Youth  and 
Age ;"  for  in  it  he  speaks  of  "  airy  clifls  and  glittering 
sands,"  and — 

Of  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 

That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide. 

As  he  had  no  companion,  I  desired  to  pay  my  respects 
to  one  of  the  most  extra^dinary — and,  indeed  in  his 
department  of  genius,  tJie  most  extraordinary  man  of  his 
age.     And  being  possessed  of  a  talisman   for  securing 


COLERIDGE.  31 

his  consideration,  I  introduced  myself  as  a  friend  and 
admirer  of  Charles  Lamb.  This  pass-word  was  sufficient, 
and  I  found  him  immediately  talking  to  me  in  the  bland 
and  frank  tones  of  a  standing  acquaintance.  A  poor 
girl  had  that  morning  thrown  herself  from  the  pier-head 
in  a  pang  of  despair,  from  having  been  betrayed  by  a 
villain.  He  alluded  to  the  event,  and  went  on  to  de- 
nounce the  morality  of  the  age  that  will  hound  from  the 
community  the  reputed  weaker  subject,  and  continue  to 
receive  him  who  has  wronged  her.  He  agreed  with  me 
that  that  question  never  will  be  adjusted  but  by  the 
women  themselves.  Justice  will  continue  in  abe3-ance  so 
long  as  they  visit  with  severity  the  errors  of  their  own  sex 
and  tolerate  those  of  ours.  He  then  diverged  to  the 
great  mysteries  of  life  and  death,  and  branched  away  to 
the  sublimer  question — the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
Here  he  spread  the  sail-broad  vans  of  his  wonderful  ima- 
gination, and  soared  away  with  an  eagle-flight,  and  with 
an  eagle-eye  too,  compassing  the  effulgence  of  his  great 
argument,  ever  ind  anon  stooping  within  my  own  spar- 
row's range,  and  then  glancing  away  again,  and  careering 
through  the  trackless  fields  of  etherial  metaphysics.  And 
thus  he  continued  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  never  pausing 
for  an  instant  except  to  catch  his  breath  (which,  in  the 
heat  of  his  teeming  mind,  he  did  hke  a  schoolboy  re- 
peating by  rote  his  task),  and  gave  utterance  to  some  of 
the  grandest  thoughts  I  ever  heard  from  the  mouth  of 
man.  His  ideas,  embodied  in  words  of  purest  eloquence, 
flew  about  my  ears  like  drifts  of  snow.  He  was  like  a 
cataract  filling  and  rushing  over  my  penny-phial  capacity. 
I  could  only  gasp  and  bow  my  head  in  acknowledgment. 
He  required  from  me  nothing  more  than  the  simple  re- 
cognition of  his  discourse  ;  and  so  he  went  on  like  a 


32  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

steam-engine  —  I  keeping  the  machine  oiled  with  my  looks 
of  pleasure,  while  he  supplied  the  fuel  ;  and  that,  upon 
the  same  theme  too,  would  have  lasted  till  now.  What 
would  I  have  given  for  a  short-hand  report  of  that  speech  ! 
And  such  was  the  habit  of  this  wonderful  man.  Like 
the  old  peripatetic  philosophers,  he  walked  about,  pro- 
digally scattering  wisdom,  and  leaving  it  to  the  winds  of 
chance  to  waft  the  seeds  into  a  genial  soil. 

My  first  suspicion  of  his  being  at  Ramsgate  had  arisen 
from  my  mother  observing  that  she  had  heard  an  elderly 
gentleman  in  the  public  library,  who  looked  like  a  Dis- 
senting minister,  talking  as  she  never  heard  man  talk. 
Like  his  own  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  when  he  had  once 
fixed  your  eye  he  held  you  sptll-bound,  and  you  were 
constrained  to  listen  to  his  tale ;  you  must  have  been 
more  powerful  than  he  to  have  broken  ihe  charm  ;  and 
I  know  no  man  worthy  to  do  that.  He  did  indeed  an- 
swer to  my  conception  of  a  man  of  genius,  for  his  mind 
flowed  on  "  like  to  the  Pontick  sea,"  that  "  ne'er  feels 
retiring  ebb."  It  was  always  ready  for  action;  like  the 
hare,  it  slept  with  its  eyes  open.  He  would  at  any  given 
moment  range  from  the  subtlest  and  most  abstruse  ques- 
tion in  metaphysics  to  the  architectural  beauty  in  contri- 
vance of  a  flower  of  the  field  ;  and  the  gorgeousness  of 
his  imagery  would  increase  and  dilate  and  flash  forth  such 
coruscations  of  similies  and  startling  theories  that  one 
was  in  a  perpetual  aurora  borealis  of  fancy.  As  Hazlitt 
once  said  of  him,  "  He  would  talk  on  for  ever,  and  you 
wished  him  to  talk  on  for  ever.  His  thoughts  never 
seemed  to  come  with  labour  or  effort,  but  as  if  borne  on 
the  gust  of  Genius,  and  as  if  the  wings  of  his  imagination 
lifted  him  off  his  feet  '^  This  is  as  truly  as  poetically 
described.     He  would  net  only  illustrate  a  theory  or  an 


COLERIDGE.  33 

argument  with  a  sustained  and  superb  figure,  but  in  pur- 
suing the  current  of  his  thought  he  would  bubble  up  with 
a  sparkle  of  fancy  so  fleet  and  brilliant  that  the  attention, 
though  startled  and  arrested,  was  not  broken.  He  would 
throw  these  into  the  stream  of  his  argument,  as  waifs  and 
strays.  Notwithstanding  his  wealth  of  language  and  pro- 
digious power  in  amplification,  no  one,  I  think  (unless  it 
were  Shakespeare  or  Bacon),  possessed  with  himself  equal 
power  of  condensation.  He  would  frequently  comprise 
the  elements  of  a  noble  theorem  in  two  or  three  words ; 
and,  like  the  genuine  offspring  of  a  poet's  brain,  it  always 
came  forth  in  a  golden  halo.  I  remember  once,  in  dis- 
coursing upon  the  architecture  of  the  Middle  Ages,  he 
reduced  the  Gothic  structure  into  a  magnificent  abstrac- 
tion— and  in  two  words.  "  A  Gothic  cathedral,"  he  said, 
"is  like  a  petrified  religion." 

In  his  prose,  as  well  as  in  his  poetry,  Coleridge's  com- 
parisons are  almost  uniformly  short  and  unostentatious  ; 
and  not  on  that  account  the  less  forcible  :  they  are  scri^> 
lural  in  character  ;  indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
one  more  apt  to  the  purpose  than  that  which  he  has 
used ;  and  yet  it  always  appears  to  be  unpremeditated. 
Here  is  a  random  example  of  what  I  mean  :  it  is  an  un- 
important one,  but  it  serves  for  a  casual  illustration  of  his 
force  in  comparison.  It  is  the  last  line  in  that  strange 
and  impressive  fragment  in  prose,  "  The  Wanderings  of 
Cain  :" — "  And  they  three  passed  over  the  white  sands, 
and  between  the  rocks,  silent  as  their  shadows."  It 
will  be  difficult,  I  think,  to  find  a  stronger  image  than 
that,  to  convey  the  idea  of  the  utter  negation  of  sound, 
with  motion. 

Like  all  men  of  genius,  and  with  the  gift  of  eloquence, 
Coleridge  had  a  power  and  subtlety  in  interpretation  that 

D 


34         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

would  persuade  an  ordinary  listener  against  the  conviction 
of  his  senses.  It  has  been  said  of  him  that  he  could  per- 
suade a  Christian  he  was  a  Platonist,  a  Deist  that  he  was 
a  Christian,  and  an  Atheist  that  he  believed  in  a  God. 
The  Preface  to  his  Ode  of  "  Fire,  Famine,  and 
Slaughter,"  wherein  he  labours  to  show  that  Pitt  the 
Prime  Minister  was  7iot  the  object  of  his  invective  at  the 
time  of  his  composing  that  famous  war-eclogue,  is  at  once 
a  triumphant  specimen  of  his  talent  for  special  pleading 
and  ingenuity  in  sophistication. 

In  a  lecture  upon  Shakespeare's  "  Tempest  "  Coleridge 
kept  his  audience  in  a  roar  of  laughter  by  drawing  a 
ludicrous  comparison  between  the  monster  Caliban  and  a 
modern  Radical.  It  was  infinitely  droll  and  clever  ;  but 
like  a  true  sophist,  there  was  one  point  of  the  argument 
which  he  failed  to  illustrate — and,  indeed,  never  alluded 
to — viz.  that  Caliban,  the  Radical,  was  inheritor  of  the 
soil  by  birth-right  :  and  Prospero,  the  aristocrat,  was  the 
aggressor  and  self-constituted  legislator.  The  tables  thus 
easily  turned  upon  Mr.  Coleridge,  would  have  involved 
him  in  an  edifying  dilemma.  The  fact  is,  that  Coleridge 
had  been  a  Jacobin,  and  was  one  of  the  marked  men  in 
the  early  period  of  the  French  Revolution.  It  was  at 
this  period  of  his  life  that  he  served  as  a  private  in  a 
regiment,  and  used  to  preach  Liberalism  to  his  brethren  ; 
and  I  believe  he  quickly  had  his  discharge.  He  had 
also  been  a  professor  of  Unitarianism,  and  delivered 
sermons.  He  once  asked  Charles  Lamb  if  he  had  ever 
heard  him  preach ;  who  replied  that  he  "  never  heard 
him  do  anything  else."  All  these  opinions  he  afterwards 
ostensibly  abjured ;  and  doubtless  he  had  good  reason 
for  making  manifest  his  conversion  from  what  he  con- 
ceived to  have  been  error.    Like  the  chameleon,  he  would 


COLERIDGE.  35 

frequently  adopt  and  reflect  the  hue  of  his  converser's  pre- 
judices, where  neither  opinions  (rehgious  or  pohlical)  were 
positively  oftensive  to  him;  and  thus,  from  a  tranquillity 
— perhaps  I  might  say,  an  indolence — of  disposition,  he 
would  fashion  his  discourse  and  frame  his  arguments,  for 
the  time  being,  to  suit  the  known  predilections  of  his 
companion.  It  is  therefore  idle  to  represent  him  as  a 
partisan  at  all,  unless  it  be  for  kindness  and  freedom  of 
thought ;  and  I  know  no  other  party  principle  worth  a 
button. 

The  upper  part  of  Coleridge's  face  was  excessively  fine. 
His  eyes  were  large,  light  grey,  prominent,  and  ot  liquid 
brilliancy,  which  some  eyes  of  fine  character  may  be  ob- 
served to  possess,  as  though  the  orb  itself  retreated  to 
the  innermost  recesses  of  the  brain.  The  lower  part  of 
his  face  was  somewhat  dragged,  indicating  the  presence 
of  habitual  pain  ;  but  his  forehead  was  prodigious,  and 
like  a  smooth  slab  of  alabaster.  A  grander  head  than  his 
has  not  been  seen  in  the  grove  at  Highgate  since  his 
neighbour  Lord  Bacon  lived  there.  From  his  physical 
conformation  Coleridge  ought  to  have  attained  an  ex- 
treme old  age,  and  he  probably  would  have  done  so  but 
for  the  fatal  habit  he  had  encouraged  of  resorting  to  the 
stimulus  of  opium.  Not  many  months  before  his  death, 
when  alluding  to  his  general  health,  he  told  me  that  he 
never  in  his  life  knew  the  sensation  of  head-ache  ;  adding, 
in  his  own  peculiarly  vivid  manner  of  illustration,  that  he 
had  no  more  internal  consciousness  of  possessing  a  head 
than  he  had  of  having  an  eye. 

My  married  sister  having  gone  to  reside  with  her  hus- 
band and  their  young  family  in  the  West  of  England,  my 
mother  and  my  unmarried  sister  went  to  live  near  them  ; 
while  I  returned  to  London  and  to  delightful  friendships 

D  2 


r5         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


J 


already  formed   there.      In  jenewing    my  old  pleasant 
relations  with  men  previously  nained  I  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  come  into  contact  with  others  of  literary  reputa- 
tion and  social   attraction.     Jefferson   Hogg,  author  of 
"  A  Hundred  and  Nine  Days  on  the  Continent,"  with  his 
dry  humour,  caustic  sarcasm,  and  peculiar  views  of  men 
and  things,  I  met  at  Lamb's  house  ;  who,  one  night  when 
Jefferson  Hogg  sat  opposite  to  him,  fastened  his  eyes  on 
his  throat  and  suddenly  asked,   "  Did   you  put  on  your 
own  cravat  this  morning?"  and  receiving  an  answer  in 
the  affirmative,  rejoined,   "  Ay,  I  thought  it  was  a  hog- 
stye  !"     There  I  also  met  Henry  Crabbe  Robinson  ;  that 
agreeable  diarist  and  universal  keeper-up  of  acquaintance. 
I  suppose  never  man  had  a  larger  circle  of  friends  whom 
he   constantly  visited  and  constantly  received  than  he 
had,  or  one  who  was  more  generally  welcome  as  a  diner- 
out,  and  better  liked  as  a  giver  of  snug  dinners,  than 
himself.     Now  too,  I  saw  Bryan  Waller  Procter,  whom 
I  had  known  and  admired  in  his  poetry,  in  his  "  Dra- 
matic Scenes,"  and  "Sicilian  Story,"   published  under 
his  pen-name  of  ."  Barry  Cornwall,"    and   subsequently 
knew  in  his  poetically  beautiful  tragedy  of  "  Mirandola  " 
and  his  collection  of  lovely  "  Songs."     He  had  a  modest 
— nay,  shy — manner  in  company  ;  heightened  by  a  sin- 
gular nervous  affection,  a  kind  of  sudden  twitch  or  con- 
traction, that  spasmodically  flitted  athwart  his  face  as  he 
conversed   upon   any   lofty   theme,   or  argued  on  some 
high-thoughted  topic.      I  again    also    occasionally  met 
Godwin.     His  bald  head,  singularly  wanting  in  the  organ 
of  veneration  (for  the  spot  where  phrenologists  state  that 
"  bump  "  to  be,  was  on  Godwin's  head  an  indentation 
instead  of  a  protuberance),  betokened  of  itself  a  remark- 
able man  and  individual  thinker  ;  and  his  laugh — with 


GODWIN.  37 

its  abrupt,  short,  monosound — more  like  a  sharp  gasp 
or  snort  than  a  laugh — seemed  alone  sufficient  to  pro- 
claim the  cynical,  satirical,  hard-judging,  deep-sighted, 
yet  strongly-feeling  and  strangely-imaginative  author  of 
"Political  Justice,"  "Caleb  Williams,"  "St.  Leon," 
and  "  Fleetwood."  His  snarling  tone  of  voice  exacer- 
bated the  effect  of  his  sneering  speeches  and  cutting  re- 
torts. On  one  occasion,  meeting  Leigh  Hunt,  who  com- 
plained of  the  shortness  of  his  sight  and  generally  wore 
attached  to  a  black  ribbon  a  small  single  eye-glass  to  aid 
hun  in  descrying  objects,  Godwin  answered  his  com- 
plaints by  saying  sharply,  "  You  should  wear  spectacles." 
Leigh  Hunt  playfully  admitted  that  he  hardly  liked  yet 
to  take  to  so  old-gentlemanly-looking  and  disfiguring  an 
apparatus  ;  when  Godwin  retorted,  with  his  snapping 
laugh,  "  Ha  !     What  a  coxcomb  you  must  be  !" 

The  Novellos,  after  leaving  Oxford  Street,  and  residing 
for  a  few  years  at  8,  Percy  Street,  had  taken  a  large,  old- 
fashioned  house  and  garden  on  Shacklewell  Green ;  and 
it  was  here  that  they  made  welcome  Mrs.  Shelley  and  Mrs. 
Williams  on  their  return  from  Italy,  two  young  and  beau- 
tiful widows,  wooing  them  by  gentle  degrees  into  peace- 
fuller  and  hopefuller  mood  of  mind  after  their  storm  of 
bereavement  abroad.  By  quiet  meetings  for  home-music; 
by  calmly  cheerful  and  gradually  sprightlier  converse  ; 
by  affectionate  familiarity  and  reception  into  their  own 
family  circle  of  children  and  friends,  Vincent  and  Mary 
Sabilla  Novello  sought  to  draw  these  two  fair  women  into 
reconcilement  with  life  and  its  still  surviving  blessings. 
Very,  very  fair,  both  ladies  were :  Mary  Wolstonecraft 
Godwin  Shelley,  with  her  well-shaped,  golden-haired  head, 
almost  always  a  little  bent  and  drooping  ;  her  marble- 
white  shoulders  and  arms  statuesquely  visible  in  the  per- 


38         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

fectly  plain  black  velvet  dress,  which  the  customs  of  that 
time  allowed  to  be  cut  low,  and  which  her  own  taste 
adopted  (for  neither  she  nor  her  sister-in-sorrovv  ever 
wore  the  convent ional  "widow's  weeds"  and  "widow's 
cap  ");  her  thoughtful,  earnest  eyes  ;  her  short  upper  lip 
and  intellectually  curved  mouth,  with  a  certain  close- 
compressed  and  decisive  expression  while  she  listened,  and 
a  relaxation  into  fuller  redness  and  mobility  when  speak- 
ing ;  her  exquisitely-formed,  white,  dimpled,  small  hands, 
with  rosy  palms,  and  plumply  commencing  fingers,  that 
tapered  into  tips  as  slender  and  delicate  as  those  in  a 
Vandyk  portrait — all  remain  palpably  present  to  m.emory. 
Another  peculiarity  in  Mrs.  Shelie/s  hand  was  its  singu- 
lar flexibility,  w^iich  permitted  her  bending  the  fingers 
back  so  as  almost  to  approach  the  portion  of  her  arm 
above  her  wrist.  She  once  did  this  smilingly  and  re- 
peatedly, to  amuse  the  girl  who  was  noting  its  whiteness 
and  pliancy,  and  who  now,  as  an  old  woman,  records  its 
remarkable  beauty.  Very  sweet  and  very  encouraging 
was  Mary  Shelley  to  her  young  namesake,  Mary  Victoria, 
making  her  proud  and  happy  by  giving  her  a  presentation 
copy  of  her  wonderful  book  "  Frankenstein "  (still  in 
treasured  preservation,  with  its  autograph  gift- words),  and 
pleasing  her  girlish  fancy  by  the  gift  of  a  string  of  cut- 
coral,  graduated  beads  from  Italy.  On  such  pleasant 
terms  of  kindly  intimacy  was  Mrs.  Shelley  at  this  period 
with  the  Novellos  that  she  and  Mrs.  Novello  interchanged 
with  one  another  their  sweet  familiar  name  of  "  Mary;  " 
and  she  gave  the  Italianized  form  of  his  name  to  Mr. 
Novello,  calling  him  "  Vincenzo  "  in  her  most  caressing 
tones,  when  she  wished  to  win  him  into  indulging  her 
with  some  of  her  especially  favourite  strains  of  music. 
Even  his  brother,  Mr.  Francis  Novello,  she  would  address 


BENR  V  ROBERTSON.  39 

as  "  Francesco,"  as  loving  to  speak  the  soft  Italian  syl- 
lables. Her  mode  of  uttering  the  word  "  Lerici  "  dwells 
upon  our  memory  with  peculiarly  subdued  and  lingering 
intonation,  associated  as  it  was  with  all  that  was  most 
mournful  in  connexion  with  that  picturesque  spot  where 
she  learned  she  had  lost  her  beloved  "  Shelley  "  for  ever 
from  this  fair  earth.  She  was  never  tired  of  asking 
*'  Francesco  "  to  sing,  in  his  rich,  mellow  bass  voice, 
Mozart's  "  Qui  sdegno,"  "  Possenti  Numi,"  "  Mentre  ti 
lascio,"  "Tuba  mirum,"  "  La  Vendetta,"  "  Non  piu  an- 
drai,"  or  "  Madamina;"  so  fond  was  she  of  his  singing 
her  favourite  composer.  Greatly  she  grew  to  enjoy  the 
"  concerted  pieces  "  from  "  Cosi  fan  tutte,"  that  used  to 
be  got  up  "  round  the  piano."  Henry  Robertson's  dra- 
matic spirit  and  vivacity  and  his  capacity  and  readiness 
in  taking  anything,  tenor  or  counter-tenor — nay,  soprano 
if  need  were — that  might  chance  to  be  most  required, 
more  than  made  up  for  the  smallness  of  his  voice.  His 
fame  for  singing  Fernando's  part  in  the  opening  trio,  "  La 
mia  Dorabella,"  with  the  true  chivalrous  zest  and  fire  of 
his  phrase,  '•'•fuore  la  spada  f  accompanied  by  appro- 
priate action,  lasted  through  a  long  course  of  years. 
Henry  Robertson  was  one  of  the  very  best  amateur 
singers  conceivable  :  indefatigable,  yet  never  anxious  to 
sing  if  better  tenors  than  himself  chanced  to  be  present ; 
an  almost  faultless  "reader  at  sight,"  always  in  tune,  in- 
variably in  good  temper,  and  n&ver  failingly  "  in  the 
humour  for  music,"  qualities  that  will  at  once  be  appre- 
ciated by  those  who  know  what  the  majority  of  amateur 
singers  generally  are.  Edward  Holmes  was  among  the 
enthusiastic  party  of  enjoyers  so  often  assembUng  at 
Shacklewell  in  those  days.  His  rapturous  love  of  music. 
his   promptly  kindled    admiration    of  feminine  beauty, 


40         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

caused  him  to  be  in  a  perpetual  ecstasy  with  the  Mozart 
evenings  and  the  charming  young-lady  widows.  He  used 
to  be  unmercifully  rallied  about  his  enamoured  fantasies 
with  regard  to  both;  and  he  took  to  rallying  his  old 
school-mate,  "  Charles  Clarke,"  in  sheer  self-defence,  on 
the  same  score.  But  the  latter  was  comparatively  heart- 
whole,  while  "  Ned  Holmes  "  was  riddled  through  and 
through  by  "the  blind  bow-boy's  butt-shaft."  Charles 
Clarke  admired,  Ned  Holmes  adored  ;  Charles  Clarke 
fluttered  like  a  moth  round  the  brilliant  attractions,  while 
Ned  Holmes  plunged  madly  into  the  scorching  flames 
and  recked  not  possible  destruction.  We  used  often  and 
through  a  long  train  of  years  to  laugh  at  Edward  Holmes 
for  his  susceptible  heart,  lost  a  dozen  times  in  a  dozen 
months  to  some  fair  ''Cynthia  of  the  minute,"  some 
prima-donna  who  sang  entrancingly,  some  sparkler  who 
laughed  bewitchingly,  or  some  tragedy  beauty  who  wept 
with  truth  and  passion.  He  confided  these  ephemeral 
captivations  with  amusing  candour  to  the  first  hearer 
among  his  favourite  associates,  often  choosing  for  his  con- 
fidante the  eldest  daughter  of  his  friend  and  master-in- 
music,  Vincent  Novello,  when  he  shared  his  opera  ticket 
or  his  playhouse  order  with  her  (in  turn  with  one  of  her 
brothers  or  sisters)   by  her  parents'  leave. 

By  the  time  I  (C.  C.  C.)  renewed  my  visits  to  her 
father  and  mother's  house,  when  Mrs.  Shelley  and  Mrs. 
Williams  were  first  welcomed  there,  this  "eldest  daughter" 
was  growing  into  young  girlhood,  and  1  (M.  C.  C.)  had 
changed  from  the  "  little  girl "  allowed  to  "  sit  up  to 
supper  P.s  a  great  treat " — when  Leigh  Hunt,  "  the 
Lambs,"  and  other  distinguished  friends  met  at  240, 
Oxford  Street,  in  the  times  of  the  Parmesan  there,  or  of 
t>.e  "ripe  Stilton  "  at  the  Vale  of  Health,  or  of  the  "old 


MliS.  SHELLEY.  41 

crumbly  Cheshire"  at  the  Lambs'  lodgings — into  a  damsel 
approaching  towards  the  age  of  "  sweet  sixteen,"  privi- 
leged to  consider  heiself  one  of  the  grown-up  people. 
Whereas  formerly  I  had  been  "  one  of  the  children," 
I  now  spoke  of  my  younger  brothers  and  sisters  as  "  the 
children ;"  and  whereas  at  the  Vale  of  Health  I  used  to 
join  the  Hunt  children  in  their  games  of  play  on  the 
Heath,  I  now  knew  of  the  family  being  in  Italy,  and  was 
permitted  to  hear  the  charming  letters  received  from 
there;  and  whereas  it  was  not  so  very  long  ago  when  I  had 
been  sent  with  Emma  Isola  by  Mary  Lamb  into  her  own 
room  at  Great  Russell  Street,  Co  vent  Garden,  to  have  a 
girlish  chat  together  by  ourselves  unrestrained  by  the 
presence  of  the  graver  and  cleverer  talkers,  I  was  now 
wont  to  sit  by  preference  with  my  elders  and  enjoy  their 
music  and  their  conversation,  their  mutual  banter,  their 
mutual  and  several  predilections  among  each  other. 
Always  somewhat  observant  as  a  child,  I  had  now  be- 
come a  greater  observer  than  ever;  and  large  and  varied 
was  the  pleasure  I  derived  from  my  observation  of  the 
interesting  men  and  women  around  me  at  this  time  of 
my  life.  Certainly  Mary  Wolstonecraft  Godwin  Shelley 
was  the  central  figure  of  attraction  then  to  my  young- 
girl  sight ;  and  I  looked  upon  her  with  ceaseless  admira- 
tion— for  her  personal  graces,  as  well  as  for  her  literary 
distinction.  The  daughter  of  William  Godwin  and 
Mary  Wolstonecraft  Godwin,  the  wife  of  Shelley,  the 
authoress  of  "  Frankenstein,"  had  for  me  a  concentration 
of  charm  and  interest  that  perpetually  excited  and  engrossed 
me  while  she  continued  a  visitor  at  my  parents'  house. 
My  father  held  her  in  especial  regard  ;  and  she  evinced 
equally  affectionate  esteem  for  him.  A  note  of  hers,  dated 
a  few  years  after  the  Shacklewell  days,  sending  him  the 


42  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

priceless  treasure  of  a  lock  of  her  illustrious  mother's  hair, 
and  written  in  the  melodious  tongue  so  dear  to  both  writer 
and  receiver,  shall  be  here  transcribed,  for  the  reader  to 
share  the  pleasure  of  its  perusal  with  her  who  has  both  note 
and  hair  carefully  enshnned  beneath  a  crystal  covering:  — 

"  Tempo  fa,  mio  caro  Vincenzo,  vi  promisi  questa  treccia 
dei  capelli  della  mia  Madre — non  mi  son  scordata  della  mia 
promessa  e  vol  non  vi  siete  scordato  di  me^sono  sicurissima. 
II  regale  presente  adunque  vi  fara  rammentare  piacevolmente 
lei  chi  ama  per  sempre  i  suoi  amici — fra  di  quali  credera  di 
sempre  trovarvi  quantunque  le  circonstanze  ci  dividono. 

"  State  felice — e  conservatemi  almeno  la  vostra  stima,  vi 

prega  la  vostra  amica  vera, 

"  II  March,  1828."  '•  Mary  Shelley. 

To  my  thinking,  two  other  women  only,  among  those 
I  have  seen  who  were  distinguish^d  for  personal  beauty 
as  well  as  for  literary  eminence,  ever  equalled  in  these 
respects  Mary  Shelley  ;  one  of  them  was  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Norton,  the  other  the  Countess  of  Blessington  ; 
but  these  two  latter-named  stars  I  never  beheld  in  a 
familiar  sphere,  I  merely  beheld  them  in  their  box  at  the 
Opera,  or  at  the  Theatre.  Mrs.  Norton  was  the  realiza- 
tion of  what  one  might  imagine  a  Muse  of  Poesy  would 
look  like, — dark-haired,  dark-eyed,  classic-browed,  and 
delicate-featured  m  the  extreme,  with  a  bearing  of 
mingled  feminine  grace  and  regal  graciousness.  Lady 
Blessington,  fair,  florid-complexioned,  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  white,  high  forehead,  above  which  her  bright 
brown  hair  was  smoothly  braided  beneath  a  light  and 
simple  blonde  cap,  in  which  were  a  few  touches  of  sky- 
blue  satin  ribbon  that  singularly  well  became  her,  setting 
off  her  buxom  face  and  its  vivid  colouring. 


43 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Leigh  Hunt— William  Hone— The  elder  Mathews— John 
Keats— Charles  and  Mary  Lamb— Sheridan  Knowles — 
Bryan  Waller  Procter. 

Late  in  the  year  1825  Leigh  Hunt  returned  from  Italy 
to  England.  THe^thusiastic  attachment  felt  for  him  by 
his  men  friends  was  felt  with  equal  ardour  by  the  young 
girl  who  had  always  heard  him  spoken  of  in  the  most 
admiring  terms  by  her  father,  her  mother,  and  many  of 
those  she  best  loved  and  esteemed.  His  extraordinary 
grace  of  manner,  his  exceptionally  poetic  appearance, 
his  distinguished  fame  as  a  man  of  letters,  all  exercised 
strong  fascination  over  her  imagination.  In  childhood 
she  had  looked  up  to  him  as  an  impersonation  of  all  that 
was  heroic  in  suffering  for  freedom  of  opinion's  sake,  of 
all  that  was  comely  in  person,  of  all  that  was  attractive 
in  manner,  of  all  that  was  tasteful  in  written  inculcation 
and  acted  precept.  He  was  her  beau-ideal  of  literary  and 
social  manhood. 

As  quite  a  little  creature  she  can  well  remember  creep- 
ing round  to  the  back  of  the  sofa  where  his  shapely 
hand  rested,  and  giving  it  a  gentle,  childish  kiss,  and  his 
peeping  over  at  her,  and  giving  a  quiet,  smiling  nod  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  baby  homage,  while  he  went  on 
with  the  conversation  in  which  he  was  engaged.  After- 
wards,  as  a  growing  girl,  when   she  used   to   hear   his 


44         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

removal  to  Italy  discussed,  and  his  not  too  prosperous 
means  deplored,  she  indulged  romantic  visions  of  working 
hard,  earning  a  fabulously  large  sum,  carrying  it  in  fairy- 
land princess  style  a  pilgrimage  across  the  Continent 
barefoot,  and  laying  it  at  his  feet,  amply  rewarded  by 
one  of  his  winning  smiles.  Strange  -as  it  seems  now  to 
be  recounting  openly  these  then  secretly  cherished  fan- 
cies, they  were  most  sincere  and  most  true  at  the  time 
they  were  cherished.  If  ever  were  man  fitted  to  inspire 
such  white-souled  aspirations  in  a  girl  not  much  more 
than  a  dozen  years  old,  it  was  Leigh  Hunt.  Delicate- 
minded  as  he  was,  rich  in  beautiful  thoughts,  pure  in 
speech  and  in  writing  as  he  was  ardently  eloquent  in 
style,  perpetually  suggesting  graceful  ideas  and  adorning 
daily  life  by  elevated  associations,  he  was  precisely  the 
man  to  become  a  young  girl's  object  of  innocent  hero- 
worship.  When  therefore  I  met  him  for  the  first  time 
after  his  return  from  Italy,  at  the  house  of  one  of  my 
parents'  friends,  all  my  hoarded  feeling  on  behalf  of  him 
and  his  fortunes  came  so  strongly  upon  me,  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice  so  powerfully  affected  me,  that  I  could 
with  difficulty  restrain  my  sobs.  He  chanced  to  be  sing- 
ing one  of  the  pretty  Irish  melodies  to  which  his  friend 
Moore  had  put  words,  "  Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems 
she  wore," — and,  as  I  listened  to  the  voice  I  remembered 
so  well  and  had  not  heard  for  so  long,  the  silent  tears 
fell  from  my  eyes  in  large  drops  of  mingled  pain  and 
pleasure.  He  was  the  man  in  all  the  world  to  best  in- 
terpret such  an  ebullition  of  feeling  had  he  observed 
it ;  l)ut  I  was  thankful  to  perceive  that  he  had  no  idea 
of  the  agitation  I  had  been  in,  when  he  finished  his  song 
and  began  his  usual  delightful  strain  of  conversation. 
Leigh  Hunt's  conversation  was  simply  perfection.     If  he 


LEIGH  HUNT.  45 

were  in  argiiment — however  warm  it  might  be — he  would 
wait  fairly  and  patiently  to  hear  "  the  other  side."  Un- 
like most  eager  converters,  he  never  interrupted.  Even 
to  the  youngest  among  his  colloquists  he  always  gave  full 
attention,  and  listened  with  an  air  of  genuine  respect  to 
whatever  they  might  have  to  adduce  in  support  of  their 
view  of  a  question.  He  was  peculiarly  encouraging  to 
young  aspirants,  whether  fledgling  authors  or  callow 
casuists;  and  treated  them  with  nothing  of  condescension, 
or  affable  accommodation  of  his  intellect  to  theirs,  or 
amiable  tolerance  for  their  comparative  incapacity,  but, 
as  it  were,  placed  them  at  once  on  a  handsome  footing 
of  equality  and  complete  level  with  himself.  When,  as 
was  frequently  the  case,  he  found  himself  left  master  of 
the  field  of  talk  by  his  delighted  hearers,  only  too  glad 
to  have  him  recount  in  his  own  felicitous  way  one  of  his 
"  good  stories,"  or  utter  some  of  his  "  good  things,"  lie 
would  go  on  in  a  strain  of  sparkle,  brilliancy,  and  fresh- 
ness like  a  sun-lit  stream  in  a  spring  meadow.  Melo- 
dious in  tone,  alluring  in  accent,  eloquent  in  choice  of 
words,  Leigh  Hunt's  talk  was  as  delicious  to  listen  to  as 
rarest  music.  Spirited  and  fine  as  his  mode  of  narrating 
a  droll  anecdote  in  written  diction  imdoubtedly  is,  his 
mode  of  telling  it  was  still  more  spirited,  and  still  more 
fine.  Impressive  and  solemn  as  is  his  way  of  writing 
down  a  ghost-story  or  tragic  incident,  his  power  in  tell- 
ing it  was  still  better.  Tender  and  aftecting  as  is  his 
manner  of  penning  a  sad  love-story,  or  a  mournful  chap- 
ter in  history,  and  the  "  Romance  of  Real  Life,"  his 
style  of  telling  it  went  beyond  in  pathos  of  expression. 
He  used  more  effusion  of  utterance,  more  mutation  of 
voice,  and  more  energy  of  gesture,  than  is  common  to 
most  Englishmen  when  under  the  excitement  of  recount- 


46         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  V/RITERS. 

ing  a  comic  story ;  and  this  produced  corresponding 
excitement  in  his  hearers,  so  that  the  "  success  "  of  his 
good  stories  was  unfaihng,  and  the  laughter  that  followed 
him  throughout  was  worked  to  a  climax  at  the  close. 
Those  who  have  laughed  heartily  when  merely  reading 
his  paper  entitled  "  On  the  Graces  and  Anxieties  of  Pig- 
driving,"  will  perhaps  hardly  credit  us  when  we  assert 
that  Leigh  Hunt's  own  mode  of  relating  the  event  he 
there  describes  of  the  pig-driving  in  Long  Lane  far 
surpassed  the  effect  produced  by  the  written  narration, — 
polishedly  witty  and  richly  humorous  as  that  written 
narration  assuredly  is.  The  way  in  which  Leigh  Hunt 
raised  his  tone  of  voice  to  the  highest  pitch,  hurling  him- 
self forward  the  while  upon  air,  as  if  in  wild  desire  to 
retrieve  the  bolting  pig,  as  he  exclaimed,  "  He'll  go  up 
all  manner  of  streets  ! "  brought  to  the  hearers'  actual 
sight  the  anguish  of  the  "poor  fellow,"  who  was  "not 
to  be  comforted  in  Barbican,"  and  placed  the  whole 
scene  palpably  before  them. 

In  the  summer  of  1826  my  father  and  mother  went 
down  to  a  pretty  rural  sea-side  spot  near  Hastings  called 
LitLle  Bohemia,  taking  me,  the  eldest  of  my  brothers, 
and  one  of  my  younger  sisters,  with  them  for  the  change 
of  air  that  these  members  of  our  family  especially  needed; 
and  when  we  returned  home  to  Shacklewell  it  chanced 
that  Charles  and  I  met  very  frequently  during  the  autumn; 
so  frequently,  and  with  such  fast-increasing  mutual  afiec- 
tion  that  on  the  ist  of  November  in  that  year  we  became 
engaged  to  each  other.  As  I  was  only  seventeen,  and 
my  parents  thought  me  too  young  to  be  married,  our 
engagement  was  not  generally  made  known.  This 
caused  a  rather  droll  circumstance  to  happen.  Charles, 
having  :)ccasion  to  call  on  business  connected  with  the 


WILLIAM  HONE.  47 

*  Everj-day  Book,"  upon  William  Hone, — who  was  then 
under  temporary  pressure  of  difficulties  and  dwelt  in  a 
district  called  "  within  the  rules  "  of  the  King's  Bench 
prison, — took  me  with  hira  to  see  that  clever  and 
deservedly  popular  writer.  Our  way  lying  through  a 
region  markedly  distinguished  for  its  atmosphere  of 
London  smoke,  London  dirt,  London  mud,  and  Lon- 
don squalor,  some  of  the  flying  soots  chanced  to  leave 
traces  on  my  countenance  ;  and  while  we  were  talking 
to  Mr.  Hone,  Chades,  noticing  a  large  smut  on  my  face, 
coolly  blew  it  oft",  and  continued  the  conversation.  Next 
time  they  met,  Hone  said  to  Charles,  "  You  are  en- 
gaged to  Miss  Novello,  are  you  not  ?  "  "  What  makes 
you  think  so?"  was  the  rejoinder.  "Oh,  when  I  saw  you 
so  familiarly  puff  off  that  smut  on  a  young  lady's  cheek, 
and  she  so  quietly  submitted  to  your  mode  of  doing  it,  I 
knew  you  must  be  an  engaged  pair." 

By  the  time  Hone's  "  Every-day  Book "  had  been 
succeeded  by  his  "  Table  Book,"  I  resolved  that  I  would 
quietly  try  whether  certain  manuscript  attem[)ts  I  had 
made  in  the  art  of  composition  might  not  be  accepted 
for  publication ;  and  I  thought  I  would  send  them,  on 
this  chance,  to  Mr.  Hone,  under  an  assumed  signature. 
The  initials  I  adopted  were  "  M.  H." — meaning  thereby 
"  Mary  Howard ;  "  because  my  father  had  once  when  a 
young  man  enacted  Falstaff,  in  a  private  performance  of 
the  First  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  as  "  Mr.  Howard."  Taking 
into  my  confidence  none  but  my  sister  nearest  to  me  in  age 
(whom  I  always  called  "  my  old  woman  "  when  she  did 
me  the  critical  service  rendered  by  Moliere's  old  maid- 
servant to  her  master),  and  finding  that  she  did  not 
frown  down  either  the  written  essay  or  the  contemplated 
enterprise,  I   fonvarded   my  first   paper,  entitled   "My 


48         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Armchair,"  and  to  mine  and  my  lister  Cecilia's  bcund- 
less  joy  found  it  accepted  by  Hone,  and  printed  in  one 
of  the  numbers  of  the  "Table  Book"  for  June,  1827, 
where  also  appeared  some  playful  verses  by  Elia,  headed 
"Gone,  or  Going,"  and  No.  XXII.  of  his  series  of  ex- 
tracts from  the  old  dramatists,  which  he  called  "  Garrick 
Plays."  I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  novice  pride  with 
which  I  showed  the  miniature  essay  to  Charles,  and  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  it  as  written  by  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen ;  still  less  can  I  forget  the  smile  and  glance  of 
pleased  surprise  with  which  he  looked  up  and  recognized 
who  was  the  girl-writer. 

These  are  some  of  the  bygone  self-memories  that  such 
"  Recollections "  as  we  have  been  requested  to  record 
are  apt  to  beguile  us  into  ;  and  such  as  we  must  beg 
our  readers  to  forbear  from  looking  upon  in  the  light  of 
egoism,  but  rather  to  regard  as  friendly  chit-chat  about 
past  pleasant  times  agreeable  in  the  recalling  to  both 
chatter  and  chattee. 

My  father  and  mother  had  left  Shacklewell  Green  and 
returned  to  reside  in  London  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leigh 
Hunt  and  their  family  lived  at  Highgate,  and  invited  me 
(M.  C.  C.)  to  spend  a  few  days  with  them  in  that  pretty 
suburban  spot,  then  green  with  tall  trees  and  shrub- 
grown  gardens  and  near  adjoining  meadows.  Pleasant 
were  the  walks  taken  arm-in-arm  with  such  a  host  and 
entertainer  as  Leigh  Hunt.  Sometimes  towards  Holly 
Lodge,  the  residence  of  an  actress  duchess, — succes- 
sively Miss  Mellon,  Mrs.  Coutts,  and  the  Duchess  of  St. 
Albans  \  of  whose  sprightly  beauty,  as  Volante  in  the 
play  of  "  The  Honeymoon,"  Leigh  Hunt  could  give 
right  pleasant  description  :  or  past  a  handsome  white 
detached  house  in  a  shrubbery,  with  a  long  low  gallery 


THE  ELDER  MATHEWS.  49 

built  out,  where  the  elder  Mathews  Hved,  whose  "  Enter- 
tainments "  and  "At  Homes"  I  had  often  seen  and  could 
enjoyingly  expatiate  upon  with  Leigh  Hunt,  as  we  went 
on  through  the  pretty  bowery  lane — then  popularly 
known  as  Millfield  Lane,  but  called  in  his  circle  Poets' 
Lane,  frequented  as  it  was  by  himself,  Shelley,  Keats, 
and  Coleridge — till  we  came  to  a  stile  that  abutted  on  a 
pathway  leading  across  by  the  ponds  and  the  Pine-mount, 
skirting  Caen  Wood,  to  Hampstead,  so  often  and  so 
lovingly  celebrated  both  in  prose  and  verse  by  him  I 
was  walking  with.  Then  there  was  the  row  of  tall  trees 
in  front  of  Mr.  Oilman's  house,  where  Coleridge  lived, 
and  beneath  which  trees  he  used  to  pace  up  and  down 
in  quiet  meditation  or  in  converse  with  some  friend. 
Then  there  was  Whittington's  Stone  on  the  road  to  the 
east  of  Highgate  Hill,  in  connexion  with  which  Leigh 
Hunt  would  discourse  delightfully  of  the  tired  boy  with 
dusty  feet  sitting  down  to  rest,  and  listening  to  the 
prophetic  peal  of  bells  that  bade  him  tarry  and  return  as 
the  best  means  of  getting  forward  in  life.  And  some- 
times we  passed  through  the  Highgate  Archway,  strolling 
on  to  the  rural  Muswell  Hill  and  still  more  rural  Friern 
Barnet,  its  name  retaining  an  old  English  form  of  plural, 
and  recalling  antique  monkish  fraternities  when  rations 
of  food  were  served  forth,  or  rest  and  shelter  given  to 
way-weary  travellers.  Leigh  Hunt's  simultaneous  walk 
and  talk  were  charming ;  but  he  also  shone  brilliantly 
in  his  after  breakfast  pacings  up  and  down  his  room. 
Clad  in  the  flowered  wrapping-gown  he  was  so  fond  of 
wearing  when  at  home,  he  would  continue  the  lively 
subject  broached  during  breakfast,  or  launch  forth  into 
some  fresh  one,  gladly  prolonging  that  bright  and  pleas- 
ant morning  hour.     He  himself  has  somewhere  spoken 


50         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

of  the  peculiar  charm  of  English  women,  as  "breakfast 
beauties,"  and  certainly  he  himself  was  a  perfect  speci- 
men of  a  "  breakfast  wit"  At  the  first  social  meal  of  the 
day  he  was  always  quite  as  brilliant  as  most  company 
men  are  at  a  dinner  party  or  a  gay  supper.  Tea  to  him 
was  as  exhilarating  and  inspiring  as  wine  to  others  ;  the 
looks  of  his  home  circle  as  excitingly  sympathetic  as  the 
applauding  faces  of  an  admiring  assemblage.  At  the 
time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  Leigh  Hunt  was  full  of 
some  translations  he  was  making  from  Clement  Marot 
and  other  of  the  French  epigrammatists ;  and  as  he 
walked  to  and  fro  he  would  fashion  a  line  or  two,  and 
hit  off  some  felicitous  turn  of  phrase,  between  whiles 
whistling  with  a  melodious  soft  little  birdy  tone  in  a 
mode  peculiar  to  himself  of  drawing  the  breath  inwardly 
instead  of  sending  it  forth  outwardly  through  his  lips.  I 
am  not  sure  that  his  happy  rendering  of  Destouches' 
couplet  epitaph  on  an  Englishman, — 

Ci-git  Jean  Rosbif,  Ecuyer, 

Qui  so  pendit  pour  se  desennuyer, 

into 

Here  lies  Sir  John  Plumpudding  of  the  Grange, 
Who  hung  himself  one  niorning,  for  a  change, 

did  not  occur  to  him  during  one  of  those  after-breakfast 
lounges  of  which  I  am  now  speaking.  Certain  am  I 
that  at  this  time  he  was  also  cogitating  the  material  for 
a  book  Avhich  he  purposed  naming  "Fabulous  Zoology;" 
and  while  this  idea  was  in  the  ascendant  his  talk  would 
be  rife  of  dragons,  griffins,  hippogriffs,  minotaurs, 
basihsks,  and  "  such  small  deer  "  and  "fearful  wild  fowl" 
of  the  genus  monster,  illustrated  in  his  wonted  dehghtful 
style  by  references  to  the  classic  poets  and  romancists. 


JOHN  KEATS.  51 

Belonging  to  this  period  also  was  his  plaa  for  writing 
a  book  of  Fairy  Tales,  some  of  the  names  and  sketched 
plots  of  which  were  capital — "  Mother  Fowl  "  (a  story  of 
a  grimy,  ill-favoured  old  beldam)  being,  I  remember,  one 
of  them.  Leign  Hunt  had  an  enchanting  way  of  taking 
you  into  his  confidence  when  his  thoughts  were  running 
upon  the  concoction  of  a  new  subject  for  a  book,  and  of 
showing  that  he  thought  you  capable  of  compreliending 
and  even  aiding  him  in  carrying  out  his  intention;  at 
any  rate,  of  sympathizing  heartily  in  his  communicated 
views.  No  man  ever  more  infallibly  won  sympathy  by 
showing  that  he  felt  you  were  eager  to  give  it  to  him. 

The  one  of  Leigh  Hunt's  children  who  most  at  that 
period  engaged  my  interest  and  fondness  was  his  little 
gentle  boy,  Vincent;  who,  being  a  namesake  of  my 
father's  used  to  call  me  his  daughter,  while  I  called  him 
"  papa."  Afterwards,  when  the  news  of  my  being 
married  reached  the  Hunt  family,  Vincent  was  found 
crying ;  and  when  asked  what  for,  he  whimpered  out, 
"  I  don't  like  to  have  my  daughter  marry  without  asking 
her  papa's  leave." 

Our  marriage  took  place  on  a  fine  summer  day — 
July  5th,  1828.  The  sky  was  cloudless  ;  and  as  we  took 
our  way  across  the  fields  that  lie  between  Edmonton  and 
Enfield — for  we  had  resolved  to  spend  our  quiet  honey- 
moon in  that  lovely  English  village,  Charles'  native 
place,  and  had  gone  down  in  primitive  Darby-and-Joan 
fashion  by  the  Edmonton  stage,  after  leaving  my  father 
and  mother's  house  on  foot  together,  Charles  laughingly 
telling  me,  as  we  walked  down  the  street,  a  story  oi  a 
man  who  said  to  his  wife  an  hour  after  the  wedding, 
"  Hitherto  I  have  been  your  slave,  madam  ;  now  you 
are  mine  " — we  lingered  by  the  brook  where  John  Keats 

E  2 


52         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

used  to  lean  over  the  rail  of  the  foot-bridge,  looking  at 
the  water  and  watching 

Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 
Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Temper'd  with  coolness  : 

and  stayed  to  note  the  exact  spot  recorded  in  Keats' 
Epistle  to  C.  C.  C,  where  the  friends  used  to  part 

Midway  between  our  homes  :  your  accents  bland 
Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  I  no  more 
Could  hear  your  footsteps  touch  the  giav'jy  floor. 
Sometimes  I  lost  them,  and  then  found  again  ; 
You  changed  the  footpath  for  the  grassy  plain  ; 

and  loitered  under  a  range  of  young  oak-trees,  now  grown 
into  more  than  stout  saplings,  that  were  the  result  of  some 
of  those  carefully  dropped  acorns  planted  by  Charles  and 
his  father  in  the  times  of  yore  heretofore  recorded.  So 
dear  to  us  always  w^ere  Enfield  and  its  associations  that 
they  were  made  the  subject  of  a  paper  without  C.  C.  C.'s 
signature  entitled  "  A  Visit  to  Enfield,"  and  a  letter 
signed  "  Felicia  Maritata,"  both  of  which  were  published 
by  Leigh  Hunt  in  his  Serials :  the  former  in  the  number 
of  his  Toiler  for  October  ii,  1830;  the  latter  in  the 
number  oi  Leigh  Huiifs  London  Journal  for  January  21, 

^835- 

Dear  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  who  were  then  resid- 
ing at  Chase  Side,  Enfield,  paid  us  the  compliment  of 
affecting  to  take  it  a  little  in  dudgeon  that  we  should  not 
liave  let  them  know  when  we  "lurked  at  the  Greyhound" 
so  near  to  them  ;  but  his  own  letter,^  written  soon  after 
that  time,  shows  how  playfully  and  how  kindly  he  really 

'  See  page  164. 


CHARLES  AND  MARY  LAMB.  53 

took  this  "stealing  a  match  before  one's  face."  He  made 
us  promise  to  repair  our  transgi-ession  by  coming  to  spend 
a  week  or  ten  days  with  him  and  his  sister  ;  and  gladly 
did  we  avail  ourselves  of  the  offered  pleasure  under  name 
of  reparation. 

During  the  forenoons  and  afternoons  of  this  memorable 
visit  we  used  to  take  the  most  enchanting  walks  in  all 
directions  of  the  lo  ely  neighbourhood.  Over  by  Winch- 
more  Hill,  through  Southgate  Wood  to  Southgate  and 
back  :  on  one  occasion  stopping  at  a  village  linendraper's 
shop  that  stood  in  the  hamlet  of  Winchmore  Hill,  that 
Mary  Lamb  might  make  purchase  of  some  little  house- 
hold requisite  she  needed ;  and  Charles  Lamb,  hovering 
near  with  us,  while  his  sister  was  being  served  by  the 
mistress  of  the  shop,  addressed  her,  in  a  tone  of  mock 
sympathy,  with  the  words,  "  I  hear  that  trade's  falling 
off,  Mrs.  Udall,  how's  this  ?  "  The  stout,  good-natured 
matron  only  smiled,  as  accustomed  to  Lamb's  whimsical 
way,  for  he  was  evidently  familiarly  known  at  the  houses 
where  his  sister  dealt  Another  time  a  longer  excursion 
was  proposed,  when  Miss  Lamb  declined  accompanying 
us,  but  said  she  would  meet  us  on  our  return,  as  the 
walk  was  farther  than  she  thought  she  could  manage.  It 
was  to  Northaw  ;  through  charming  lanes,  and  country 
by-roads,  and  we  went  hoping  to  see  a  famous  old  giant 
oak-tree  there.  This  we  could  not  find ;  it  had  perhaps 
fallen,  after  centuries  of  sturdy  grosvth  ;  but  our  walk 
was  delightful,  Lamb  being  our  conductor  and  con- 
fabulator.  It  was  on  this  occasion  that — sitting  on  a  felled 
tree  by  the  way-side  under  a  hedge  in  deference  to  the 
temporary  fatigue  felt  by  the  least  capable  walker  of  the 
three — he  told  us  the  story  of  the  dog  -  that  he  had  tired 
*  See  the  chapter"  Some  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb,"  page  170. 


54         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

out  and  got  rid  of  by  that  means.  The  rising  ground  of 
the  lane,  the  way-side  seat,  Charles  Lamb's  voice,  our 
own  responsive  laughter — all  seem  present  to  us  as  we 
write.  Mary  Lamb  was  as  good  as  her  word — when  was 
she  otherwise?  and  came  to  join  us  on  our  way  back 
and  be  with  us  on  our  reaching  home,  there  to  make  us 
comfortable  in  old-fashion  easy-chairs  for  "  a  good  rest " 
before  dinner.  The  evenings  were  spent  in  cosy  talk  ; 
Lamb  often  taking  his  pipe,  as  he  sat  by  the  fire-side,  and 
puffing  quietly  betv/een  the  intervals  of  discussing  some 
choice  book,  or  telling  some  racy  story,  or  uttering  some 
fine,  thoughtful  remark.  On  the  first  evening  of  our  visit 
he  had  asked  us  if  we  could  play  whist,  as  he  liked  a 
rubber  ;  but  on  our  confessing  to  very  small  skill  at  the 
game,  he  said,  "  Oh,  then,  you're  right  not  to  play ;  I 
hate  playing  with  bad  players."  However,  on  one  of  the 
last  nights  of  our  stay  he  said,  "  Let's  see  what  you're 
like,  as  whist-players;"  and  after  a  hand  or  two,  finding 
us  not  to  be  so  unproficient  as  he  had  been  led  to  believe, 
said,  "  If  I  had  only  known  you  were  as  good  as  this, 
we  would  have  had  whist  every  evening." 

His  style  of  playful  bluntness  when  speaking  to  his 
intimates  was  strangely  pleasant— nay,  welcome  :  it  gave 
you  the  impression  of  his  liking  you  well  enough  to  be 
rough  and  unceremonious  with  you  :  it  showed  you  that 
he  felt  at  home  with  you.  It  accorded  with  Avhat  you 
knew  to  be  at  the  root  of  an  ironical  assertion  he  made 
— that  he  always  gave  away  gifts,  parted  with  presents, 
and  sold  keepsakes.  It  underlay  in  sentiment  the 
drollery  and  reversed  truth  of  his  saying  to  us,  "  I  always 
call  my  sister  Maria  when  we  are  alone  together,  INLary 
when  we  are  with  our  friends,  and  Moll  betore  the  ser- 
vants." 


CHARLES  LAMB.  55 

He  was  at  this  time  expecting  a  visit  from  the  Hoods, 
and  talked  over  with  us  the  grand  preparations  he  and 
his  sister  meant  to  make  in  the  way  of  due  entertain- 
ment :  one  ot  the  dishes  he  proposed  being  no  other 
than  "bubble  and  squeak."  He  had  a  liking  for  queer, 
out-of-the-way  names  and  odd,  startling,  quaint  nomen- 
clatures ;  bringing  them  in  at  unexpected  moments,  and 
dwelling  upon  them  again  and  again  when  his  interlocu- 
tors thought  he  had  done  with  them.  So  on  this  occasion 
"  bubble  and  squeak  "  made  its  perpetual  reappearance 
at  the  most  irrelevant  points  of  the  day's  conversation 
and  evening  fire-side  talk,  till  its  sheer  repetition  became 
a  piece  of  humour  in  itself. 

He  had  a  hearty  friendship  for  Thomas  Hood,  es- 
teeming him  as  well  as  liking  him  very  highly.  Lamb 
was  most  warm  in  his  preferences,  and  his  cordial  sym- 
pathy with  those  among  them  who  were,  like  himself,  men 
of  letters,  forms  a  signal  refutation  of  the  lukewarmness — 
nay,  envy— that  has  often  been  said  to  subsist  between 
writers  towards  one  another.  Witness,  for  example,  his 
lines  to  Sheridan  Knowles  "  on  his  Tragedy  of  Vir- 
ginius."  Witness,  too,  his  three  elegant  and  witty  verse 
compliments  to  Leigh  Hunt,  to  Procter,  and  to  Hone. 
The  first  he  addresses  "  To  my  friend  the  Indicator," 
and  ends  it  witli  these  ingeniously  turned  lines  : — 

I  would  not  lightly  bruise  old  Priscian's  head, 
Or  wrong  the  rules  of  grammar  understood  ; 
But,  with  the  leave  of  Priscian,  be  it  said, 
The  Indicative  is  your  Potential  Mood. 
Wit,  poet,  prose-man,  party-man,  translator — 
Hunt,  your  best  title  yet  is  Indicator. 

The  second,  addressed  "  To  the  Author  of  the  Poems 
publislied  under  the  name    of   Larry  Cornwall,"   alter 


56         RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

praising  his  "  Marcian  Colonna,"  "  The  Sicilian  Tale," 
and  "  The  Dream,"  bids  him 

No  longer,  then,  as  "  lowly  substitute. 
Factor,  or  Procter,  for  another's  gains, " 
Suffer  the  admiring  world  to  be  deceived  ; 
Lest  thou  thyself,  by  self  of  fame  bereaved, 
Lament  too  late  the  lost  prize  of  thy  pains, 
And  heavenly  tunes  piped  through  an  alien  flute. 

And  the  third,  adtlressed  "  To  the  Editor  of  the  '  Every- 
day Book,'  "  has  this  concluding  stanza  : — 

Dan  Phoebus  loves  your  book — trust  me,  friend  Hone — 

The  title  only  errs,  he  bids  me  say  ; 
For  while  such  art,  wit,  reading  there  are  shown, 

He  swears  'tis  not  a  work  of  cvoy  day. 

There  is  another  point  on  which  we  would  fain  say  a 
word  in  vindication  of  noble,  high-natured,  true-hearted 
Charles  Lamb ;  a  word  that  ought  once  and  for  ever  to 
be  taken  on  trust  as  coming  from  those  who  had  the 
honour  of  staying  under  his  own  roof  and  seeing  him  day 
by  day  from  morning  to  night  in  familiar  home  inter- 
course— a  word  that  ought  once  and  for  ever  to  set  at 
rest  accusations  and  innuendoes  brought  by  those  who 
know  him  only  by  handed- down  tradition  and  second- 
hand report.  As  so  much  has  of  late  years  been  hinted 
and  loosely  spoken  about  Lamb's  "  habit  of  drinking" 
and  of  "taking  more  than  was  good  for  him,"  we  avail 
ourselves  of  this  opportunity  to  state  emphatically — from 
our  own  personal  knowledge — that  Lamb,  far  from  taking 
much,  took  very  little,  but  had  so  weak  a  stomach  that 
what  would  have  been  a  mere  nothing  to  an  inveterate 
drinker,  acted  on  him  like  potations  "  pottle  deep." 
We  have  seen  him  make  a  single  tumbler  of  moderately 
strong  spirits-and-water  last  through  a  long  evening  of 


CHARLES  LAMB.  57 

pipe-smoking  and  fireside  talk  ;  and  we  have  also  seen 
the  strange  suddenness  with  which  but  a  glass  or  two  of 
wine  would  cause  him  to  speak  with  more  than  his  usual 
stammer — nay,  with  a  thickness  of  utterance  and  impeded 
articulation  akin  to  Octavius  Cesar's  when  he  says, 
"  Mine  own  tongue  splits  what  it  speaks."  As  to  Lamb's 
own  confessions  of  intemperance,  they  are  to  be  taken 
as  all  his  personal  pieces  of  writing — those  about  himself 
as  well  as  about  people  he  knew — ought  to  be,  with  more 
than  a  "grain  of  salt."  His  fine  sense  of  the  humorous, 
his  bitter  sense  of  human  frailty  amid  his  high  sense  of 
human  excellence,  his  love  of  mystifying  his  readers  even 
while  most  taking  them  into  his  confidence  and  admitting 
them  to  a  glimpse  of  his  inner  self — combined  to  make 
his  avowal  of  conscious  defect  a  thing  to  be  received 
with  large  allowance  and  lenientest  construction.  Charles 
Lamb  had  three  striking  personal  peculiarities  :  his  eyes 
were  of  different  colours,  one  being  greyish  blue,  the  other 
brownish  hazel ;  his  hair  was  thick,  retaining  its  abun- 
dance and  its  dark-brown  hue  with  scarcely  a  single  grey 
hair  among  it  until  even  the  latest  period  of  his  life  j  and 
he  had  a  smile  of  singular  sweetness  and  beauty. 


58         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Godwin — Horace  Smith — William  Hazlitt— Mrs.  Nesbitt— 
Mrs.  Jordan  —  Miss  M.  A.  Tree  —  Coleridge  —  Edmund 
Reade — Vincent  Novello — Extracts  from  a  diary  ;  1830^ 
John  Cramer — Hummel — Thalberg — Charles  Stokes — ■ 
Thomas  Adams — Thomas  Attwood — Liszt — Felix  Men- 
delssohn. 

We  had  the  inexpressible  joy  and  comfort  of  remaining 
in  the  home  where  one  of  us  had  hved  all  her  days — in 
the  house  of  her  father  and  mother.  Writing  the  "  Fine 
Arts"  for  the  Atlas  newspaper,  and  the  "Theatricals" 
for  the  Examiner  newspaper,  gave  us  the  opportunity  of 
largely  enjoying  two  pleasures  peculiarly  to  our  taste. 
Our  love  of  pictorial  art  found  frequent  delight  from 
attending  every  exhibition  of  paintings,  every  private  view 
of  new  panorama,  new  large  picture,  new  process  of 
colouring,  new  mode  of  copying  the  old  masters  in 
woollen  cloth,  enamel,  or  mosaic,  that  the  London  season 
successively  produced,  while  our  fondness  for  "  going  to 
the  play "  was  satisfied  by  having  to  attend  every  first 
performance  and  every  fresh  revival  that  occurred  at  the 
theatres. 

This  latter  gratification  was  heightened  by  seeing  fre- 
quently in  the  boxes  the  bald  head  of  Godwin,  with  his 
arms  folded  across  his  chest,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stage, 
his  short,  thick-set  person  immovable,  save  when  some 
absurdity  in  the  piece  or  some  maladroitness  of  an  actor 


GODWIN— HORACE  SMITH.  59 

caused  it  to  jerk  abruptly  forward,  shaken  by  his  single- 
snapped  laugh  ;  and  also  by  seeing  there  Horc.ce  Smith's 
remarkable  profile,  the  very  counterpart  of  that  of  Socrates 
as  known  to  us  from  traditionally  authentic  sources. 
With  these  two  men  we  now  and  then  had  the  pleasure 
of  interchanging  a  word,  as  we  met  in  the  crowd  when 
leaving  the  playhouse ;  but  there  was  a  third  whom  we 
frequently  encountered  on  these  occasions,  who  often  sat 
with  us  during  the  performance,  and  compared  notes  with 
lis  on  its  merits  during  its  course  and  at  its  close.  This 
was  William  Hazlitt,  then  writing  the  "Theatricals"  for 
the  Times  newspaper.  His  companionship  was  most 
genial,  his  critical  faculty  we  all  know  •  it  may  therefore 
be  readily  imagined  the  gladness  with  which  we  two  saw 
him  approach  the  seats  where  we  were  and  take  one  be- 
side us  of  his  own  accord.  His  dramatic  as  well  as  his 
literary  judgment  was  most  sound,  and  that  he  became 
a  man  of  letters  is  matter  of  congratulation  to  the  reading 
world  ;  nevertheless,  had  William  Hazlitt  been  constant 
to  his  first  intellectual  passion — that  of  painting,  and  to 
his  first  ambition — that  of  becoming  a  pictorial  artist,  there 
is  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  would  have  become 
quite  as  eminent  as  any  Academician  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  The  compositions  that  still  exist  are  sufficient 
evidence  of  his  promise.  The  very  first  portrait  that  he 
took  was  a  mere  head  of  his  old  nurse  ;  and  so  remark- 
able are  the  indications  in  it  of  early  excellence  in  style 
and  manner  that  a  member  of  the  profession  inquired  of 
the  person  to  whom  Hazlitt  lent  it  for  his  gratification, 
"  Why,  where  did  you  get  that  Rembrandt  ?  "  The  upper 
part  of  the  face  was  in  strong  shadow,  from  an  over- 
pending  black  silk  bonnet  edged  with  black  lace,  that 
threw  the  forehead  and  eyes  into  darkened  effect ;  vhile 


6o         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

this,  as  well  as  the  wrinkled  cheeks,  the  lines  about  the 
mouth,  and  the  touches  of  actual  and  reflected  light, 
were  all  given  with  a  truth  and  vigour  that  might  well 
recall  the  hand  of  the  renowned  Flemish  master.  It  was 
our  good  fortune  also  to  see  a  magnificent  copy  that 
Hazlitt  made  of  Titian's  portrait  of  Ippolito  dei  Medici, 
when  we  called  upon  him  at  his  lodgings  one  evening. 
The  painting — mere  stretched  canvas  without  frame — 
was  standing  on  an  old-fashioned  couch  in  one  corner  of 
the  room  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  we  remained  op- 
posite to  it  for  some  time,  while  Hazlitt  stood  by  holding 
the  candle  high  up  so  as  to  throw  the  light  well  on  to  the 
picture,  descanting  enthusiastically  on  the  merits  of  the 
original.  The  beam  from  the  candle  falling  on  his  own 
finely  intellectual  head,  with  its  iron-grey  hair,  its  square 
potential  forehead,  its  massive  mouth  and  chin,  and  eyes 
full  of  earnest  fire,  formed  a  glorious  picture  in  itself,  and 
remains  a  luminous  vision  for  ever  upon  our  memory. 
Hazlitt  was  naturally  impetuous,  and  feeling  that  he 
could  not  attain  the  supreme  height  in  art  to  which  his 
imagination  soared  as  the  point  at  which  he  aimed,  and 
which  could  alone  suffice  to  realize  his  ideal  of  excellence 
therein,  he  took  up  the  pen  and  became  an  author,  with 
what  perfect  success  every  one  knows.  His  facility  in 
composition  was  extreme.  We  have  seen  him  continue 
writing  (when  we  went  to  see  him  while  he  was  pressed 
for  time  to  finish  an  article)  with  wonderful  ease  and 
rapidity  of  pen,  going  on  as  if  writing  a  mere  ordinary 
letter.  His  usual  manuscript  was  clear  and  unblotted, 
indicating  great  readiness  and  sureness  in  writing,  as 
though  requiring  no  erasures  or  interlining.  He  was  fond 
of  using  large  pages  of  rough  paper  with  ruled  lines,  such 
as  those  of  a  bought-up  blank  account-book — as   they 


WJLLIAM  HAZLITT.  6i 

were.  We  are  so  fortunate  as  to  have  in  our  possession 
Hazlitt's  autograph  title-page  to  his  "  Life  of  Napoleon 
Buonaparte,"  and  the  proof-sheets  of  the  preface  he 
originally  wrote  to  that  work,  with  his  own  correcting 
marks  on  the  margin.  The  title-page  is  written  in  fine, 
bold,  legible  hand-writing,  while  the  proof  corrections 
evince  the  care  and  final  polish  he  bestowed  on  what 
he  Avrote.  The  preface  was  suppressed,  in  deference  to 
advice,  when  the  work  was  first  published  :  but  it  is 
strange  to  see  what  was  then  thought  "too  strong,  and 
outspoken,"  and  what  would  now  be  thought  simply 
staid  and  forcible  sincerity  of  opinion,  most  fit  to  be 
expressed. 

Hazlitt  was  a  good  walker;  and  once,  while  he  was 
living  at  Winterslow  Hut  on  Salisbury  Plain,  he  accepted 
an  invitation  from  a  brother-in-law  and  sister  of  ours, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Towers,  to  pay  them  a  visit  of  some  days 
at  Standerwick,  and  went  thither  on  foot. 

When  Hazlitt  was  in  the  vein,  he  talked  super-excel- 
lently ;  and  we  can  remember  one  forenoon  finding  him 
sitting  over  his  late  breakfast — it  was  at  the  time  he  had 
forsworn  anything  stronger  than  tea,  of  which  he  used  to 
take  inordinate  quantities — and,  as  he  kept  pouring  out 
and  drinking  cup  after  cup,  he  discoursed  at  large  upon 
Richardson's  "  Clarissa"  and  *'  Grandison,"  a  theme  that 
had  been  suggested  to  him  by  one  of  us  having  expressed 
her  predilection  for  novels  written  in  letter-form,  and  for 
Richardson's  in  particular.  It  happened  that  we  had 
once  heard  Charles  Lamb  expatiate  upon  this  very 
subject;  and  it  was  with  reduplicated  interest  that  we 
listened  to  Hazlitt's  opinion,  comparing  and  collating  it 
with  that  of  Lamb.  Both  men,  we  remember,  dwelt 
with  interest  upon  the  character  of  John  Belford,  Love- 


62         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

lace's  trusted  friend,  and  upon  his  loyalty  to  him  with  his 
loyal  behaviour  to  Clarissa. 

At  one  period  of  the  time  when  we  met  Hazlitt  so 
frequently  at  the  theatres  Miss  Mordaunt  (afterwards 
Mrs.  Nesbitt)  was  making  her  appearance  at  the  Hay- 
market  in  the  first  bloom  and  freshness  of  her  youth  and 
beauty,  Hazlitt  was  "  fathoms  deep"  in  love  with  her, 
making  us  the  recipients  of  his  transports  about  her; 
while  we,  almost  equal  fanatics  with  himself,  "  poured  in 
the  open  ulcer  of  his  heart  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  cheek, 
her  gait,  her  voice,"  and  "  lay  in  every  gash  that  love  had 
given  him  the  knife  that  made  it."  He  was  apt  to  have 
these  over-head-and-ears  enamourments  for  some  cele- 
brated beauty  of  the  then  stage  :  most  young  men  of  any 
imagination  and  enthusiasm  of  nature  have  them.  We 
remember  Vincent  Novello  ecstasizing  over  the  enraptur- 
ing laugh  of  Mrs.  Jordan  in  a  style  that  brought  against 
him  the  banter  of  his  hearers  ;  and  on  another  occasion 
he,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  C.  C.  C.  comparing  notes  and  find- 
ing that  they  had  all  been  respectively  enslaved  by  Miss 
M.  A.  Tree  when  she  played  Viola  in  "  Twelfth  Night ;" 
and,  on  still  another,  Leigh  Hunt  and  C.  C.  C.  confessing 
to  their  having  been  cruelly  and  woefully  in  love  with 
a  certain  Miss  (her  very  name  is  now  forgotten  !) — a 
columbine,  said  to  be  as  good  in  private  life  as  she  was 
pretty  and  graceful  in  her  public  capacity, —  and  who,  in 
their  "  salad  days,"  had  turned  their  heads  to  desperation. 

William  Hazlitt  was  a  man  of  firmly  consistent  opinion  ; 
he  maintained  his  integrity  of  Liberal  faith  throughout, 
never  swerving  for  an  instant  to  even  so  much  as  a  com- 
promise with  the  dominant  party  which  might  have  made 
him  a  richer  man. 

In  an  old  diary  of  ours  for  the  year  1830,  under  the 


COLERIDGE.  dz 

date  Saturday,  i8th  September,  there  is  this  sad  and 
simple  manuscript  record : — "  William  Hazlitt  (one  of 
the  first  critics  of  the  day)  died.  A  few  days  ago  when 
Charles  went  to  see  him  during  his  illness,  after  Charles 
had  been  talking  to  him  for  some  time  in  a  soothing 
undertone,  he  said,  '  My  sweet  friend,  go  into  the  next 
room  and  sit  there  for  a  time,  as  quiet  as  is  your  nature, 
for  I  cannot  bear  talking  at  present.'"  Under  that 
straightforward,  hard-hitting,  direct-telling  manner  of  his, 
both  in  writing  and  speaking,  Hazlitt  had  a  depth  of 
gentleness — even  tenderness— of  feeling  on  certain  sub- 
jects ;  manly  friendship,  womanly  sympathy,  touched 
him  to  the  core  ;  and  any  token  of  either  would  bring  a 
sudden  expression  into  his  eyes  very  beautiful  as  well  as 
very  heart-stirring  to  look  upon.  We  have  seen  this 
expression  more  than  once,  and  can  recall  its  appealing 
charm,  its  wonderful  irradiation  of  the  strong  features  and 
squarely-cut,  rugged  under  portion  of  the  face. 

In  the  same  diary  above  alluded  to  there  is  another 
entry,  under  the  date  Friday,  5th  March  :—"  Spent  a 
wonderful  hour  in  the  company  of  the  poet  Coleridge." 
It  arose  from  a  gentleman — a  Mr.  Edmund  Reade,  whose 
acquaintance  we  had  made,  and  who  begged  we 
would  take  a  message  from  him  to  Coleridge  concerning 
a  poem  lately  written  by  Mr.  Reade,  entitled  "  Cain," — 
asking  us  to  undertake  this  commission  for  him,  as  he 
had  some  hesitation  in  presenting  himself  to  the  author 
of  "  The  Wanderings  of  Cain."  More  than  glad  were  we 
of  this  occasion  for  a  visit  to  Highgate,  where  at 
Mr.  Oilman's  house  we  found  Coleridge,  bland,  amiable, 
affably  inclined  to  renew  the  intercourse  of  some  years 
previous  on  the  cliff  at  Ramsgate.  As  he  came  into  the 
room,  large-presenced,  ample-countenanced,  grand-fore- 


64         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

headed,  he  seemed  to  the  younger  visitor  a  living  and 
moving  impersonation  of  some  antique  godlike  being 
shedding  a  light  around  him  of  poetic  effulgence  and 
omnipercipience.  He  bent  kindly  eyes  upon  her,  when 
she  was  introduced  to  him  as  Vincent  Novello's  eldest 
daughter  and  the  wife  of  her  introducer,  and  spoke  a 
few  words  of  courteous  welcome  :  then,  the  musician's 
name  catching  his  ear  and  engaging  his  attention,  he 
immediately  launched  forth  into  a  noble  eulogy  of  music, 
speaking  of  his  special  admiration  for  Beethoven  as  the 
most  poetical  of  all  musical  composers ;  and  from  that, 
went  on  into  a  superb  dissertation  upon  an  idea  he  had 
conceived  that  the  Creation  of  the  Universe  must  have 
been  achieved  during  a  grand  prevailing  harmony  of 
spheral  music.  His  elevated  tone,  as  he  rolled  forth  his 
gorgeous  sentences,  his  lofty  look,  his  sustained  flow  of 
language,  his  sublime  utterance,  gave  the  effect  of  some 
magnificent  organ-peal  to  our  entranced  ears.  It  was 
only  when  he  came  to  a  pause  in  his  subject— or  rather, 
to  the  close  of  what  he  had  to  say  upon  it  — that  he 
reverted  to  ordinary  matters,  learned  the  motive  of  our 
visit  and  the  message  with  which  we  were  charged,  and 
answered  some  inquiries  about  his  health  by  the  pertinent 
bit  already  quoted  in  these  Recollections  respecting  his 
immunity  from  headache. 

A  few  other  entries  in  the  said  old  diary, — which  pro- 
bably came  to  be  exceptionally  preserved  for  the  sake  of 
the  one  on  Coleridge,  and  the  one  on  Hazlitt, — are  also 
of  some  interest: — "  15th  February.  In  the  evening  we 
saw  Potier,  the  celebrated  French  comedian,  in  the 
*  Chiffonnier,'  and  '  Le  Cuisinier  de  Bufifon  ;'  a  few  hours 
afterwards  the  English  Opera  House  was  burnt  to  the 
ground.     God  be  praised  for  our  escape  ! "  "  4th  March. 


JOHN  CRAMER.  65 

One  of  the  most  delightful  evenings  I  ever  enjoyed, — ■ 
John  Cramer  was  with  us."'  "25th  March.  Saw  Miss 
Fanny  Kemble  play  Portia,  in  the  '  Merchant  of  Venice,' 
for  her  first  benefit."  "21st  April.  Went  to  the 
Diorama,  and  saw  the  beautiful  view  of  Mount  St. 
Gothard.  In  the  evening  saw  the  admirable  Potier  in 
'  Le  Juif  and  'Antoine.'"  "21st  June.  Heard  the 
composer  Hummel  play  his  own  Septet  in  D  Minor,  a 
Rondo,  Mozart's  duet  for  two  pianofortes,  and  he  extem- 
porized for  about  twenty  minutes.  The  performance 
was  for  his  farewell  concert.  His  hand  reminds  me  of 
Papa  more  than  of  John  Cramer."  "  21st  September. 
Witnessed  Miss  Paton's  first  reappearance  in  London 
after  her  elopement.  She  played  Rosina  in  '  The  Barber 
of  Seville.'  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  was  with  us."  "  ist  October. 
Saw  a  little  bit  of  Dowton's  Cantwell  on  the  opening  of 
Drury  Lane ;  the  house  was  so  full  we  could  not  get  a 
seat."  "  i8th  October.  Saw  Mac  eady  in  'Virginius' 
at  Drury  Lane."  "21st  October.  Saw  Macready's 
'Hamlet.'" 

The  references  to  two  great  musical  names  in  the 
above  entries  recall  some  noteworthy  meetings  at  the 
Novellos'  house.  John  Cramer  was  an  esteemed  friend 
of  Vincent  Novello,  who  highly  admired  his  fine  talent 
and  liked  his  social  qualities.  Cramer  was  a  peculiarly 
courteous  man  :  polished  in  manner  as  a  frequenter  of 
Courts,  as  much  an  adept  in  subtly  elegant  flattery  as 
a  veteran  courtier ;  handsome  in  face  and  person  as  a 
Court  favourite,  distinguished  in  bearing  as  a  Court 
ruler,  he  was  a  very  mirror  of  courtliness.  Yet  he  could 
be  more  than  downright  and  frank-spoken  upon  particular 
occasion  :  for  once,  when  Rossini  and  Rossini's  music 
were  in  the  ascendant  among  fashionable  coteries,  and 


66         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Cramer  thought  him  overweening  in  consequence,  when 
he  met  him  for  the  first  time  in  society,  after  something 
of  Rossini's  had  been  played,  and  he  looked  at  Cramer 
as  if  in  expectation  of  eulogy — the  latter  went  to  the 
pianoforte  and  gave  a  few  bars  from  Mozart's  "  Nozze 
di  Figaro"  (the  passage  in  the  finale  to  the  2nd  Act, 
accompanying  the  words,  "  Deh,  Signor,  nol  contrastate") ; 
then  turned  round  and  said  in  French  to  Rossini, 
"  That's  what  /call  music,  caro  maestro." 

As  a  specimen  of  his  more  usually  courtly  manner, 
witty,  as  well  as  elegant,  may  be  cited  the  exquisitely- 
turned  compliment  he  paid  to  Thslberg,  who,  saying 
with  some  degree  of  pique,  yet  with  evident  wish  to  win 
Cramer's  approval,  "  I  understand,  Mr.  Cramer,  you 
deny  that  I  have  the  good  left  hand  on  the  pianoforte 
which  is  attributed  to  me ;  let  me  play  you  something 
that  I  hope  will  convince  you  ;"  played  a  piece  that 
showed  wonderful  mastery  in  manipulation  on  the  bass 
part  of  the  instrument.  Cramer  listened  implicitly 
throughout,  then  said,  "  I  am  still  of  the  same  opinion, 
Monsieur  Thalberg ;  I  think  you  have  no  left  hand — I 
think  you  have  tivo  right  hands.''^ 

John  Cramer's  own  pianoforte-playing  was  supremely 
good,  quite  worthy  the  author  ot  the  charming  volume  of 
Exercises — most  of  them  delightful  pieces  of  composition 
— known  as  "J.  B.  Cramer's  Studio."  His  '•'■  legato" 
playing  was  singularly  fine  :  for,  having  a  very  strong 
third  finger  (generally  the  weak  point  of  pianists),  no 
perceptible  difference  could  be  traced  when  that  finger 
touched  the  note  in  a  smoothly  equable  run  or  cadence. 
We  have  heard  him  mention  the  large  size  of  his  hand  as 
a  stumbling-block  rather  than  as  an  aid  in  giving  him 
command  over  the  keys ;  and  probably  it  was  to  his  con- 


HUMMEL.  67 

sciousness  of  this,  as  a  defect  to  be  overcome,  that  may 
be  attributed  his  excessive  delicacy  and  finish  of  touch. 

Hummel's  hand  was  of  more  moderate  size,  and  he 
held  it  in  the  close,  compact,  firmly-curved,  yet  easily- 
stretched  mode  which  forms  a  contrast  to  the  ungainly 
angular  style  in  which  many  pianists  splay  their  hands 
over  the  instrument.  His  mere  way  of  putting  his  hands 
on  the  key-board  when  he  gave  a  preparatory  prelude  ere 
beginning  to  play  at  once  proclaimed  the  master— the 
musician,  as  compared  with  the  mere  pianoforte-player. 
It  was  the  composer,  not  the  performer,  that  you  immedi- 
ately recognized  in  the  few  preluding  chords  he  struck — 
or  rather  rolled  forth.  His  improvising  was  a  marvel  of 
facile  musical  thought ;  so  symmetrical,  so  correct,  so 
mature  in  construction  was  it  that,  as  a  musical  friend — 
himself  a  musician  of  no  common  excellence,  Charles 
Stokes — observed  to  us,  "  You  might  count  the  time 
to  every  bar  he  played  while  improvising." 

Hummel  came  to  see  us  while  he  was  in  London, 
bringing  his  two  young  sons  with  him  ;  and  we  remember 
one  of  them  making  us  laugh  by  the  childish  abruptness 
with  which  he  set  down  the  scalding  cup  of  tea  he  had 
raised  to  his  lips,  exclaiming  in  dismay,  "  Ach !  es  ist 
heiss !  " 

The  able  organ-player  Thomas  Adams,  and  Thomas 
Attwood,  who  had  been  a  favourite  pupil  of  Mozart,  by 
whom  he  was  pettingly  called  "  Tommasino,"  were  also 
friends  of  Vincent  Novello  ;  and  Liszt  brought  letters  of 
introduction  to  him  when  he  visited  England.  The  first 
time  Liszt  came  to  dinner  he  chanced  to  arrive  late :  the 
fish  had  been  taken  away,  and  roast  lamb  was  on  table, 
with  its  usual  English  accompaniment  of  mint  sauce. 
This   latter,    a   strange   condiment  to  the  foreigner,   so 

F  2 


68         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

pleased  Liszt's  taste  that  he  insisted  on  eating  it  with  the 
broLight-back  mackerel,  as  well  as  with  every  succeeding 
dish  that  came  to  table— gooseberry  tart  and  all  ! — he 
good-naturedly  joining  in  the  hilarity  elicited  by  his 
universal  adaptation  and  adoption  of  mint  sauce. 

Later  on  v,-e  had  the  frequent  delight  of  seeing  and 
hearing  Felix  Mendelssohn  among  us.  Youthful  in  years, 
face,  and  figure,  he  looked  almost  a  boy  when  he  first  be- 
came known  to  Vincent  Novello,  and  was  almost  boyish 
in  his  unaffected  ease,  good  spirits,  and  readiness  to  be 
delighted  with  everything  done  for  him  and  said  to  him. 
He  was  made  much  of  by  his  welcomer,  who  so  appreci- 
ated his  genius  in  composition  and  so  warmly  extolled  his 
execution,  both  on  the  organ  and  on  the  pianoforte,  that 
once  when  Mr.  Novello  was  praising  him  to  an  English 
musical  professor  of  some  note,  the  professor  said,  "  If 
you  don't  take  care,  Novello,  you'll  spoil  that  young  man.'' 
"  He's  too  good,  too  genuine  to  be  spoiled,"  was  the 
reply. 

We  had  the  privilege  of  being  with  our  father  when  he 
took  young  Mendelssohn  to  play  on  the  St.  Paul's  organ ; 
where  his  feats  (as  Vincent  Novello  punningly  called 
them)  were  positively  astounding  on  the  pedals  of  that 
instrument.  ]\Iendelssohn's  organ  pedal-playing  was  a 
real  wonder, — so  masterful,  so  potent,  so  extraordinarily 
agile.  The  last  piece  we  ever  heard  him  play  in  England 
was  Bach's /z/^^  on  his  own  name,  on  the  Hanover  Square 
organ,  at  one  of  the  concerts  given  there.  We  had  the 
good  fortune  to  hear  him  play  some  of  his  own  pianoforte 
compositions  at  one  of  the  Dusseldorf  Festivals ;  where 
he  conducted  his  fine  psalm  "  As  the  hart  pants."  On 
that  occasion,  calling  upon  him  one  morning  when  there 
was  a  private  rehearsal  going  on,  we  had  the  singular 


MENDELSSOHN.  69 

privilege  cjf  hearing  him  sing  a  few  notes, — just  to  give 
the  vocalist  who  was  to  sing  the  part  at  performance  an 
idea  of  how  he  himself  wished  the  passage  sung, — which 
he  did  with  his  small  voice  but  musician-like  expression. 
On  that  same  occasion,  too,  v/e  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of 
half  an  hour's  quiet  talk  with  him,  as  he  leaned  on  the 
back  of  a  chair  near  us  and  asked  about  the  London 
Philharmonic  Society,  &c.,  having,  like  ourselves,  arrived 
at  an  exceptionally  early  time  before  the  Grand  Festival 
ball  began  that  evening.  And  on  the  same  occasion 
likewise,  we  spent  a  pleasant  forenoon  with  him  in  the 
Public  Gardens  at  Dusseldorf,  where  he  invited  us,  in 
true  German  social  and  hospitable  style,  to  partake  of 
some  "  Mai-Trank''  sitting  in  the  open  air,  Ustening  to 
the  nightingales  that  abound  in  that  Rhine-side  spot; 
he  laughing  at  us  for  saying  this  Rhenish  beverage  was 
"delicious  innocent  stuff,"  and  telling  us  we  must  beware 
lest  we  found  it  not  so  "  innocent "  as  it  seemed.  Once  in 
England,  he  came  to  us  the  morning  after  Beethoven's 
opera  of  "  Fidelio"  had  been  produced  for  the  first  time 
on  the  English  stage,  when  Mdrae.  Schroeder-Devrient 
was  the  Leonora,  and  Haitzinger  the  Florestan.  Men- 
delssohn was  full  of  radiant  excitement  about  the  beauty 
of  the  music  :  and  as  he  enlarged  on  the  charm  of  this 
duet,  this  aria,  this  round-quartet,  this  prisoner's  chorus, 
this  trio,  or  this  march,  — he  kept  playing  by  memory  bits 
from  the  opera,  one  after  another,  in  illustration  of  his 
words  as  he  talked  on,  sitting  by  the  pianoforte  the 
while.  On  his  wonderful  power  of  improvisation,  and 
that  memorable  instance  of  it  one  night  that  we  witnessed 
we  have  elsewhere  enlarged ; '  and  certainly  that  was  a 
triumphant  specimen  of  his  skill  in  extempore-playing. 
*  "  Life  and  Labours  of  Vincent  Novello,"  page  y]. 


70         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Felix  Mendelsohn  was  a  gifted  man,  a  true  genius  ; 
and  he  might  have  shone  in  several  other  fields,  as  well 
as  in  that  of  music,  had  he  not  solely  dedicated  himself 
to  that  art.  He  was  a  good  pictorial  artist,  and  made 
spirited  sketches.  He  was  an  excellent  classical  scholar  ; 
and  once  at  the  house  of  an  English  musical  professor, 
whose  son  had  been  brought  up  for  the  Church,  and  had 
been  a  University  student,  there  chancing  to  arise  a 
difference  of  opinion  between  him  and  Mendelssohn  as 
to  some  passage  in  the  Greek  Testament,  when  the  book 
was  taken  down  to  decide  the  question  Mendelssohn 
proved  to  be  in  the  right.  He  was  well  read  in  English 
literature,  and  largely  acquainted  with  the  best  English 
poets.  Once,  happening  to  express  a  wish  to  read 
Burns's  poems,  and  regretting  that  he  could  not  get  them 
before  he  left,  as  he  was  starting  next  morning  for  Ger- 
many, Alfred  Novello  and  C.  C.  C.  procured  a  copy  of 
the  fine  masculine  Scottish  poet  at  Bickers's,  in  Leicester 
Square,  on  their  way  down  to  the  boat  by  which  Men- 
delssohn was  to  leave,  and  reached  there  in  time  to  put 
into  his  hand  the  wished-for  book,  and  to  see  his  gratified 
look  on  receiving  the  gift.  It  is  perhaps  to  this  incident 
we  owe  the  c'larming  two-part  song,  "  O  wert  thou  in  the 
cauld  blast" 


71 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Fanny  Kemlale — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Kemble— Dowton — 
Perlet — Macready — Potier — Lablache  —  Paganini  —  Don- 
zelli— Madame  Albert— Mdlle.  Mars— Mdlle.  Jenny  Vertpre 
— Cartigny  —  Lemaitre  —  Rachel  —  "  Junius  Redivivus" — 
Sarah  Flower  Adams — Eliza  Flower — Mrs.  Leman  Grim- 
stone —  Leigh  Hunt  —  Isabella  Jane  Towers  —  Thomas 
James  Serle — Douglas  Jerrold — Richard  Peake — The  elder 
Mathews — Egerton  Webb — Talfourd — Charles  Lamb^ 
Edward  Holmes — John  Oxenford. 

The  occurrence  of  Fanny  Kemble's  name  reminds  us  to 
narrate  the  interest  created  by  her  first  appearance  on 
the  stage,  to  retrieve  the  fortunes  of  the  theatre  of  which 
her  father  was  then  lessee.  It  was  one  of  those  nights 
not  to  be  forgotten  in  theatrical  annals.  The  young  girl 
herself — under  tw^enty — coming  out  as  the  girl-heroine  of 
tragedy,  Shakespeare's  Juliet ;  her  mother,  Mrs.  Charles 
Kemble,  after  a  retirement  from  the  stage  ot  some  years 
playing  (for  this  especial  night  of  her  daughter's  debut 
and  her  husband's  effort  to  re-establish  the  attraction  of 
Covent  Garden  Theatre)  the  part  of  Lady  Capulet ;  her 
father,  Charles  Kemble,  a  man  much  past  fifty  years  of 
age,  enacting  with  wonderful  spirit  and  vigour  the  mer- 
curial character  of  Mercutio ;  combined  to  excite  into 
enthusiasm  the  assembled  audience.  The  plaudits  that 
overwhelmed  Mrs.  Charles  Kemble,  causing  her  to  stand 
trembling  with  emotion  and  melted  into  real  tears  that 


72         RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

drenched  the  rouge  from  her  cheeks,  plaudits  that  assured 
her  of  genuine  welcome  given  by  a  public  accustomed  to 
a  long  esteem  for  the  name  of  Kemble,  and  now  actuated 
by  a  private  as  well  as  professional  sympathy  for  her— these 
plaudits  had  scarcely  died  away  into  the  silence  of  expec- 
tancy, when  Juliet  had  to  make  her  entrance  on  the  scene. 
We  were  in  the  stage-box,  and  could  see  her  standing 
at  the  wing,  by  the  motion  of  her  lips  evidently  endeavour- 
ing to  bring  moisture  into  her  parched  mouth,  and  trying 
to  summon  courage  for  advancing  ;  when  Mrs.  Davenport, 
who  played  in  her  own  inimitable  style  the  part  of  the 
Nurse,  after  calling  repeatedly  "Juliet!  what,  Juliet!" 
went  towards  her,  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  pulled  her 
forward  on  to  the  stage— a  proceeding  that  had  good 
natural  as   well  as  dramatic   effect,  and   brought    forth, 
the  immediately  recognizant  acclamations  of  the  house. 
Fanny  Kemble's  acting  was  marked  by  much  originality 
of  thought  and  grace  of  execution.     Seme  of  the  positions 
she  assumed  were  strik  ngly  new  and  appropriate,  sugges- 
tive as  they  were  of  the  state  of  feeling  and   peculiar 
situation  in  which  the  character  she  was  playing  happened 
to   be.     For  instance,  in  the  scene  of  the  second  act, 
where  Juliet  is  impatiently  awaiting  the  return  of  her  nurse 
with  tidings  from  Romeo,  Fanny  Kemble  was  discovered 
in  a  picturesque  attitude  standing  leaning  on  the  back 
of  a  chair,  earnestly  looking  out  of  a  tall  window  opening 
on  to  a  garden,  as  if  eager  to  catch  the  first  approach  of 
the  expected  messenger  ;  and  again,  in  "  The  Provoked 
I-Iusband,"  where  the  scene  of  Lady  Townley's  dressing- 
room  opens  in  the  fifth  act,  Fanny  Kemble  was  found 
lying  upon  her  face,   stretched  upon  a  sofa,   her  head 
buried  in  the  pillow-cushions,  as  if  she  had  flung  herself 
there  in  a  fit  of  sleepless  misery  and  shame,  thinking  of 


FANNY  KEMBLE—DO  WTON.  73 

her  desperate  losses  at  the  gaming-table  overnight.  She 
proved  herself  hardly  less  calculated  to  shine  as  a 
dramatic  wTiter  than  as  a  dramatic  performer  ;  for  in 
about  a  year  or  two  after  she  came  out  upon  the  stage, 
her  tragedy  of  "  Francis  the  First  "  was  produced  at  the 
theatre  and  appeared  in  print  -  a  really  marvellous  pro- 
duction for  a  girl  of  her  age.  She  showed  herself  to  be  a 
worthy  member  of  a  family  as  richly  endowed  by  nature 
as  the  one  whose  name  she  bore.  One  of  us  could 
remember  John  Kemble  and  Sarah  Kemble  Siddons ; 
the  other  could  just  remember  seeing  Stephen  Kemble 
play  Falstatf  (without  stuffing,  as  it  was  announced),  and 
frequent'y  witnessed  Charles  Kemble's  delightful  imper- 
sonation of  Falconbridge,  Benedick,  Archer,  Ranger, 
Captain  Absolute,  Young  Marlowe,  Young  Mirabel,  and 
a  host  of  other  brilliant  youngsters,  long  after  he  had 
reached  middle  age,  with  unabated  spirit  and  grace  and 
good  looks  ;  and  who  both  lived  to  see  yet  another 
Kemble  bring  added  laurels  to  the  name  in  the  person  of 
Adelaide  Kemble. 

Dowton's  Cantwell  wns  one  of  those  fine  embodiments 
of  class  character  that  would  alone  suffice  to  make  the 
lasting  fame  of  an  actor.  Had  Dowton  never  played  any 
other  part  than  this,  he  would  have  survived  to  posterity 
as  a  perfect  performer  ;  his  sleek  condition,  his  spotless 
black  clothes,  his  placidly-folded  hands,  his  smooth, 
serene  voice,  his  apparently  cloudless  countenance,  with 
nevertheless  a  furtive,  watchful  look  in  the  eye,  a  calmly- 
compressed  mouth,  with  nevertheless  a  betraying  devil 
of  sensuality  lurking  beneath  the  carefully-maintained 
compression — these  sub-expressions  of  the  eye  and  lip 
uncontrollably  breaking  forth  in  momentary  flash  and 
sudden,  involuntary  quiver, — during  the  scenes  with  Lady 


74         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Lambert, — vv-ere  all  finely  present,  and  formed  a  highly- 
finished  study  of  a  sanctimonious,  self-seeking,  calculat- 
ing hypocrite.  We  have  seen  Perlet,  the  French  comedian, 
play  the  original  counterpart  of  Gibber  and  Bickerstaff's 
Doctor  Cantwellj  —  MoUere's  Tartuffe ;  and  Perlet  went 
so  far  as  to  paint  additional  vermilion  round  his  mouth, 
so  as  to  give  the  effect  of  the  sensual,  scarlet  lip  ;  but 
Dowton's  alternated  contraction  and  revealment  of  his 
naturally  full  lip  gave  even  more  vital  effect  to  the 
characteristically  suggestive  play  of  feature.  The  tone, 
too,  in  which  Dowton  first  calls  to  his  secretary,  uttering 
his  Christian  name,  "  Charles  !  "  in  silky,  palavering  voice, 
when  he  bids  him  "  Bring  me  that  writing  I  gave  you  to 
lay  up  this  morning,''  as  contrasted  with  his  subsequent 
imperious  utterance  of  the  surname,  "  Seyward  !  "  when 
he  summons  his  secretary  to  abet  him  in  his  assertion  of 
supreme  mastery  in  Sir  John  Lambert's  house,  formed 
two  admirably  telling  points  in  this,  his  perhaps  most 
renowned  performance.  At  the  same  time,  be  it  stated, 
that  his  tempest  of  fury,  in  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  and 
characters  of  that  class,  with  his  delightfully  tolerant 
good-humour  and  pleasant  cordiality  in  the  part  ot 
Old  Hardcastle  in  Goldsmith's  charming  comedy,  "  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer,"  were  quite  as  perfect  each  in  their 
several  ways. 

Of  Macready's  playing  Virginius,  Rob  Roy, — and  sub- 
sequently King  John  [one  of  his  very  best-conceived 
impersonations,  for  our  detailed  description  of  which  see 
pages  340-1-2  of  "  Shakespeare-Characters"],  Henry  v., 
Prospero,  Benedick,  Richelieu,  Walsingham,  and  a  score 
of  other  admirably  characteristic  personifications,  we  will 
not  allow  ourselves  to  speak  at  length  ;  owing  many 
private   kindnesses   and    courtesies    to   the    gentleman, 


MACREADY-POTIER,  75 

v>'hile  we  enjoyed  so  frequently  his  varied  excellences  as 
an  actor,  and  approved  so  heartily  his  judicious  arrange- 
ments as  a  manager. 

Of  Potier's  acting  v^'e  had  frequent  opportunities  of 
judging ;  since  he,  with  several  of  his  best  brother  come- 
dians, at  the  time  we  are  referring  to,  came  to  London  in 
the  successive  French  companies  that  then  first,  and 
subsequently,  repaired  thither  to  act  French  pieces.  It 
was  a  novelty  that  took  :  for  the  majority  of  fashionable 
play-goers  were  sufficiently  versed  in  the  language  to 
appreciate  and  enjoy  the  finished  acting  and  entertaining 
pieces  then  produced.  In  the  year  1830  Leigh  Hunt 
started  his  Tatler,  generally  writing  the  Theatre,  Opera, 
and  Concert  notices  in  it  himself,  under  the  heading  oi 
"  The  Play-goer  ;"  but  occasionally  he  asked  me  (C.  C.  C.) 
to  supply  his  place;  and  accordingly,  several  of  the  articles 
— such  as  those  recording  Lablache's  initiative  appear- 
ances in  London, Paganini's,  Donzelli's,  charming  Madame 
Albert's,  Laporte's,  and  on  the  Philharmonic  Society,  bear 
witness  to  our  enjoyment  of  some  of  the  best  performances 
going  on  during  the  few  years  that  Leigh  Hunt's  Tatler 
existed.  Afterwards,  we  witnessed  in  brilliant  succession 
Mademoiselle  Mars, — whose  Ce'limiene  in  Moliere's 
"  Misanthrope "  was  unrivalled,  and  whose  playing  of 
Valerie,  a  blind  girl  of  sixteen,  who  recovers  her  lost 
sight,  when  Mars  was  nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  was  a 
marvel  of  dramatic  success — Mdlle.  Plessy,  a  consummate 
embodiment  of  French  lady-like  elegance  ;  Jenny  Vertpre', 
whose  portrayal  of  feline  nature  and  bearing  beneath 
feminine  person  and  carriage,  as  the  cat  metamorphosed 
into  a  woman,  was  unique  in  clever  peculiarity  of 
achievement ;  Cartigny,  great  in  Moliere's  "  Depit 
Amoureux"  as  Gros  Rene  ;  Perlet,  exquisite  in  Moliere's 


76         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

"  Tartuffe,"  "  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,"  and  "  Malade 
Imaginairej"  Lemaitre,  pre-eminent  in  "Robert  Macaire," 
"Trente  Ans  de  la  Vie  d'un  Joueur,"  "Don  Ce'sar  de 
Bazan,"  and  "  Le  Docteur  Noir ;"  and,  finally,  glorious 
Rachel,  peerless  among  all  tragic  actresses  ever  beheld 
by  M.  C.  C,  who  never  saw  Mrs.  Siddons.  But  we  will 
not  permit  ourselves  to  be  lured  away  into  the  pleasant 
paths  of  acting  reminiscences  :  return  we  to  our  more 
strictly  requested  recollections  of  literary  people.  In 
Leigh  Hunt's  Tatler  appeared  a  clever  series  of  papers 
signed  "Junius  Redivivus,"  which  were  written  by  a 
gentleman  who  had  married  Sarah  Flower  Adams, 
authoress  of  the  noble  dramatic  poem  "  Vivia  Perpetua,' 
and  sister  to  Eliza  Flower,  composer  of  "  Musical  Illus- 
trations of  the  Waverley  Novels,"  and  other  productions 
that  manifested  unusual  womanly  amount  of  scientific 
attainment  in  music.  The  two  sisters  were  singularly 
gifted  :  graceful-minded,  accomplished,  exceptionally 
skilled  in  their  respective  favourite  pursuits.  One  evening 
before  her  marriage  we  were  invited  to  the  house  of  a 
friend  of  hers,  where  Sarah  Flower  gave  a  series  of 
dramatic  performances,  enacted  in  a  drawing-room,  with 
folding-doors  opened  and  closed  between  the  select 
audience  and  herself  during  the  successive  presentment 
of  Ophelia's  and  other  of  Shakespeare's  heroines'  chief 
scenes,  dressed  in  character,  and  played  with  much  zest 
of  impassioned  delivery. 

Another  contributor  to  Leigh  Hunt's  Tatler  was  Mrs. 
Leman  Grimstone,  whose  papers  appeared  with  the 
signature  "  M.  L.  G."  She  was  one  of  the  very  first  of 
those  who  modestly  yet  firmly  advocated  women's  rights  : 
a  subject  now  almost  worn  threadbare  and  hackneyed  by 
zealous  partisans,  but  then  put  forth  diffidently,  sedately, 


AIRS.  LEMAN  GRIMSTONE.  77 

with  all  due  deference  of  appeal  to  manly  justice,  reason, 
and  consideration.  In  the  number  of  the  Tatler  for 
22nd  March,  1832,  Leigh  Hunt  printed  these  hnes, 
preceded  by  a  few  words  from  himself  within  brackets  : — 

The  Poor  Woman's  Appeal  to  her  Husband. 

[We  affix  a  note  to  the  following  verses,  not  from  any  doubt 
that  their  beautiful  tenderness  can  escape  the  observation  of 
our  readers,  but  because  we  owe  to  the  fair  author  an  acknow- 
ledgment for  the  heartfelt  gratification  which  this  and  other 
previous  communications  from  her  pen  have  afforded  to 
ourselves.] 

You  took  me,  Colin,  when  a  girl,  unto  your  home  and  heart, 
To  bear  in  all  your  after  fate  a  fond  and  faithful  part  ; 
And  tell  me,  have  I  ever  tried  that  duty  to  forego — 
Or  pined  there  was  not  joy  for  me,  when  you  were  sunk  in  woe  ? 
No — I  would  rather  sharej(??^r  tear  than  any  other's  glee. 
For  though  you're  nothing  to  the  world,  you're  all  the  world 

to  me  ; 
You  make  a  palace  of  my  shed — this  rough-hewn  bench  a 

throne — 
There's  sunlight  for  me  in  your  smile,  and  music  in  your  tone. 
I  look  upon  you  when  you  sleep,  my  eyes  with  tears  grow  dim 
I  cry,  "  O  Parent  of  the  poor,  look  down  from  Heaven  on 

him — 
Behold  him  toil  from  day  to  day,  exhausting  strength  and 

soul — 
Oh  look  with  mercy  on  him.  Lord,  for  Thou  canst  make  him 

whole  ! " 
And  when  at  last  relieving  sleep  has  on  my  eyelids  smiled, 
How  oft  are  they  forbade  to  close  in  slumber,  by  my  child  ; 
I  take  the  little  murmurer  that  spoils  my  span  of  rest, 
And  feel  it  is  a  part  of  thee  I  lull  upon  my  breast. 
There's  only  one  return  1  crave — I  may  not  need  it  long, 
And  it  may  soothe  thee  when  Lm  where — the  wretched  feel 

no  wrong  ! 
I  ask  not  for  a  kinder  tone — for  thou  wert  ever  kind  ; 
I  ask  not  for  less  frugal  fare — my  fare  I  do  not  mind  ; 


78         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

I  ask  not  for  attire  more  gay — if  such  as  I  ha  /e  got 

Suffice  to  make  me  fair  to  thcc,  for  more  I  murmur  not. 

But  I  would  ask   some  share   of  hours  that  you  at   clubs 

bestow — 
Of  knowledge  \h2Xyou  prize  so  much,  might  /not  something 

know  ? 
Subtract  from  meetings  among  men,  each   eve,  an  hour 

for  me — 
Make  me  companion  of  your  ^^;//,  as  I  may  surely  be  ! 
If  you  will  read,  I'll  sit  and  work  :  then  think,  when  you're 

away, 

Less  tedious  I  shall  find  the  time,  dear  Cohn,  of  your  stay. 

A  meet  companion  soon  I'll  be  for  e'en  your  studious  hours— 

And  teacher  of  those  little  ones  you  call  your  cottage  flowers  ; 

And  if  we  be  not  rich  and  great,  we  may  be  wise  and  kind  ; 

And  as  my  heart  can  warm  your  heart,  so  may  my  mind  your 

mind. 

M.  L.  G. 

Leigh  Hunt's  Toiler  was  followed  early  in  1834  by  his 
' London  Journal,  to  which  my  (C.  C.  C.'s)  lamented  sister, 
Isabella  Jane  Towers,  contributed  some  verses,  entitled 
"  To  Gathered  Roses,"  in  imitation  of  Herrick,  as  pre- 
viously, in  the  Literary  Examiner,  which  he  published 
in  1823,  he  had  inserted  her  "  Stanzas  to  a  Fly  that  had 
survived  the  Winter  of  1822."  She  was  the  author  of  three 
graceful  books  of  juvenile  tales,  "  The  Children's  Fire- 
side," "  The  Young  Wanderer's  Cave,"  and  "  The  Wan- 
derings of  Tom  Starboard." 

In  the  spring  of  1835  was  brought  out  at  the  English 
Opera  House  a  drama  entitled  "  Tlie  Shadow  on  the 
Wall,"  and  when  it  made  its  appearance  in  printed  form 
it  was  accompanied  by  the  following  dedication : — 

The  truest  gratification  felt  by  an  Author,  in  laying  his 
•work  before  the  Public,  is  the  hope  to  render  it  a  memento  of 
private  affection.     The  Writer  of 


THOMAS  JAMES  SERLE.  79 

"The  Shadow  on  the  Wall » 

can  experience  no  higher  pleasure  of  this  kind 

than  in  inscribing  it  to 

C.  N. 

Kensington,  ist  May,  1835. 

The  writer  of  "  The  Shadow  on  the  Wall  "  was  Thomas 
James  Serle,  and  the  initials  represented  Cecilia  Novello, 
who  was  his  affianced  future  wife.  He  had  already  been 
known  to  the  theatrical  world  by  his  play  of  "  The  Mer- 
chant of  London,"  his  tragedy  of  "  The  House  of  Col- 
berg,"  his  drama  of  "  The  Yeoman's  Daughter,"  and  his 
play  of  "The  Gamester  of  Milan."  After  his  marriage 
with  my  (M.  C.  C.'s)  sister  Cecilia  in  18.36,  we  watched 
with  enhanced  interest  the  successive  production  of  his 
dramas  and  plays,  "  A  Ghost  Story,"  "  The  Parole  of 
Honour,"  "Joan  of  Arc,"  "Master  Clarke,"  "The  Widow' 
Queen,"  and  "Tender  Precautions:"  when  he  com- 
bined with  the  career  of  dramatist  that  of  lecturer,  and, 
subsequently,  that  of  political  writer,  continuing  for  many 
years  editor  of  one  of  our  London  newspapers.  Ulti- 
mately he  has  returned  to  his  first  love  of  literary  pro- 
duction, having  of  late  years  written  several  carefully- 
composed  plays  and  dramas  with  the  utmost  maturity  of 
thought  and  consideration.  It  was  at  his  house,  imme- 
diately after  his  marriage,  that  we  met  an  entiirely  new 
and  delightful  circle  of  literary  men,  his  valued  friends 
and  associates.  It  was  there  we  first  met  Douglas  Jer- 
rold,  learning  that  he  had  written  his  "  Black-eyad 
Susan  "  when  only  eighteen,  that  it  was  rapidly  followed 
b  his  "  Devil's  Ducat,"  "  Sally  in  Our  Alley,"  "  Mutiny 
at  the  Nore,"  "  Bride  of  Ludgate,"  "  Rent  Day,"  "  Gol- 
den Calf,"  "Ambrose  Gwinett,"  and  "John  Overy ;" 
while   he   himself,   soon   after  our  introduction  to  him 


8o         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


gave  us  a  highly-prized  presentation  volume,  containing 
his  "  Nell  Gwynne,"  "  Housekeeper,"  "  Wedding  Gown," 
"  Beau  Nash,"  and  "  Hazard  of  the  Die."  It  was  our 
happy  fortune  to  be  subsequently  present  on  most  of  the 
first  nights  of  representation  of  his  numerous  dramas, 
including  "The  Painter  of  Ghent,"  in  which  he  himself 
acted  the  principal  character  when  it  was  originally 
brought  out  at  the  Standard  Theatre,  under  the  manage 
ment  of  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Hammond.  As  the 
piece  proceeded,  and  came  to  the  point  where  Ichabod 
the  Jew,  speaking  of  his  lost  son,  has  to  say,  "  He  was  a 
healing  jewel  to  mine  eye — a  staff  of  cedar  in  my  hand 
— a  fountain  at  my  foot,"  the  actor  who  was  playing  the 
character  made  a  mistake  in  the  words,  and  substituted 
something  of  his  own,  saying  "a  well-spring"  instead  of 
"  a  fountain."  A  pause  ensued  ;  neither  he  nor  Jerrold 
going  on  for  some  minutes.  Afterwards,  talking  over 
the  event  of  the  night  with  him,  he  told  us  that  when  his 
interlocutor  altered  the  words  of  the  dialogue,  he  had 
turned  towards  him  and  whispered  fiercely,  "It's  neither 
a  well-spring  nor  a  pump ;  and  till  you  give  me  the  right 
cue,  I  shan't  go  on."  A  more  significant  proof  that  the 
author  in  Jerrold  was  far  stronger  than  the  actor  could 
hardly  be  adduced.  And  yet  we  have  seen  bim  act  finely, 
too.  When  Ben  Jonson's  "Every  Man  in  his  Humour" 
was  first  performed  by  the  amateur  company  of  Charles 
Dickens  and  his  friends,  Douglas  Jerrold  then  playing 
the  part  of  Master  Stephen,  he  acted  with  excellent 
effect ;  and,  could  he  but  have  quenched  the  intellect  in 
his  eyes,  he  would  have  looked  the  part  to  perfection,  so 
well  was  he  "got  up  "  for  the  fopling  fool.  Jerrold  had 
a  delightful  way  of  making  a  disagreeable  incident  into  a 
delight  by  the  brilliant,  cheery  way  in  which  he  would  utter 


RICHARD  PEAKE.  8i 

a  jest  in  the  midst  of  a  dilemma.  It  was  while  walking 
home  together  from  Serle's  house,  one  bleak  night  of 
English  spring,  that,  in  crossing  Westminster  Bridge,  with 
an  east  wind  blowing  keenly  through  every  fold  of  cloth- 
ing we  wore,  Jerrold  said  to  us,  "  I  blame  nobody ;  but 
they  call  this  May  !" 

Of  him  and  his  super-exquisite  wit  more  will  be  found 
in  his  letters  to  us,  and  our  comments  thereon,  which 
we  shall  subsequently  give  in  another  portion  of  these 
Recollections. 

It  was  at  Serle's  hospitable  board  that  we  met  that 
right  "merry  fellow,"  Richard  Peake,  author  of  the  droll 
farce  "  Master's  Rival,"  and  who  used  to  write  the  "  En- 
tertainments "  and  "  At  Homes  "  for  the  elder  Mathews. 
Peake  was  the  most  humorous  storyteller  and  narrator 
himself;  so  much  so  that  could  he  but  have  conquered 
his  overwhelming  native  bashfulness  he  would  have  made 
as  good  an  actor,  or  even  monologuist,  as  the  best.  We 
remember  hearing  him  tell  a  history  of  some  visit  he 
paid  in  the  country,  where  he  accompanied  his  enter- 
tainers to  their  village  church,  in  which  was  a  preacher 
afflicted  with  so  utterly  inarticulate  an  enunciation,  made 
doubly  indistinct  by  the  vanity  resonance  of  the  edifice, 
that  though  a  cavernous  monotone  pervaded  the  air  yet 
not  a  syllable  was  audible  to  the  congregation.  This 
wabbling,  stentorian,  portentously  solemn,  yet  ludi- 
crously inefiicient  voice  resounding  through  the  aisles  of 
the  village  temple,  seems  even  yet  to  ring  in  our  ears ; 
as  well  as  a  certain  discordant  yell  that  he  affirmed  pro- 
ceeded from  the  bill  of  a  bereaved  goose,  pent  up  with 
some  ducks  in  the  area  of  a  house  near  to  one  where 
he  was  staying,  and  which  perpetually  proclaimed  its 
griefs  of  captivity  and  desolation  in  the  single  screech  of 

G 


82         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

execration — "  Jeemes  ! " — while  the  ducks  offered  vain 
consolation  in  the  shape  of  a  clutter  of  dull,  gurgling 
quack-quack-quacks  that  seemed  to  imply,  "  What  a  fool 
you  must  be !  Why  don't  you  take  it  coolly  and  philo- 
sophically as  we  do  ?  " 

It  was  Peake's  manner  and  tone  that  gave  peculiar 
comicality  to  such  things  as  these  when  he  told  them. 

He  wrote  a  whimsical  set  of  tales  for  a  magazine,  giving 
them  the  ridiculous  punning  name  of  "Dogs'  Tales;"  in 
which  there  was  a  man  startled  by  a  noise  in  a  lone  house 
that  made  him  exclaim,  "  Ha !  is  that  a  rat  ?  "  and  then 
added,  "  No !  it's  only  a  rat-tat,"  on  discovering  that  it 
was  somebody  knocking  at  the  door.  Peake  was  odd, 
excessively  odd,  in  his  fun.  He  told  us  that  when  he 
married,  his  wife  continuing  much  affected  by  the  circle 
of  weeping  friends  from  whom  she  had  just  parted,  he 
suddenly  snatched  her  hand  in  his,  gave  it  a  smart  tap, 
and  said  peremptorily,  "  Come,  come,  come,  come  !  we 
must  have  no  more  of  this  crying  ;  we  are  now  in  another 
parish,  you  belong  to  me,  and  I  insist  upon  it,  }'OU  leave 
off!  " 

Once,  when  we  were  spending  an  evening  at  Serle's,  he, 
Douglas  Jerrold,  and  Egerton  Webbe — who  was  an  ex- 
ceptionally clever  young  man  in  many  ways,  but  who, 
alas  !  died  early — happened  to  be  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion about  Talfourd's  account  of  Charles  Lamb,  seeming 
to  think  that  Talfourd  overrated  Lamb's  generosity  of 
character  in  money-matters.  We  had  listened  silently  to 
the  discussion  for  a  time,  but  when  the  majority  of 
opinion  seemed  to  be  settling  down  into  a  confirmed 
belief  that  there  was  nothing,  after  all,  so  remarkably 
generous  in  the  traits  that  Lamb's  biographer  had  re- 
corded, we  stated,  what  we  knew  to  be  the  truth,  that 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD.  83 

Charles  Lamb,  out  of  his  small  income  (barely  sufficient 
for  his  own  and  his  sister's  comfortable  maintenance), 
dedicated  a  yearly  sum  of  thirty  pounds  as  a  stipend  to 
help  support  his  old  schoolmistress,  an  act  of  generosity 
which,  as  compared  with  his  means,  we  considered  to  be 
a  really  munificent  gift.  Douglas  Jerrold,  in  his  hearty 
manner,  instantly  exclaimed,  "You're  right,  Mrs.  Cowden 
Clarke !  you've  made  out  your  case  completely  for 
Lamb ! "  And  then  he  went  on  to  quote,  with  a  tone 
of  warmth  that  showed  he  did  not  utter  the  words 
lightly  : — 

After  my  death  I  wish  no  other  herald, 
No  other  speaker  of  my  living  actions, 
To  keep  mine  honour  from  corruption, 
But  such  an  honest  chronicler  as  Griffith. 

Dear  Douglas  Jerrold  !  By  a  strange  chance,  years  after 
his  death,  the  "  honest  chronicler "  he  had  wished  for 
actually  had  an  opportunity  of  vindicating  his  fame  upon 
a  point  in  which  she  heard  it  impugned,  in  the  light,  casual 
way  that  people  will  repeat  defamatory  reports  of  those 
who  have  enjoyed  public  favour  and  renov/n.  At  an 
English  dinner-table  in  Italy  Douglas  Jerrold  was  spoken 
of  in  our  presence  as  one  who  indulged  too  freely  in 
wine,  and  we  were  able  to  vindicate  his  memory  from 
the  unfounded  charge  by  asserting  positively  our  kno\/- 
ledge  to  the  contrary.  Like  many  men  of  scci  J 
vivacity  and  brilliant  imagination,  Douglas  Jerrold  would 
join  in  conviviality  with  great  gusto  and  with  animatedly 
expressed  consciousness  of  the  festive  exhilaration  im- 
parted by  wine  to  friendly  meetings  ;  but  to  say  that  he 
habitually  suftered  himself  to  be  overtaken  by  wine  is 
utterly  false. 

G  2 


84         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Having  mentioned  Egerton  Webbe,  reminds  us  to 
relate  that  a  sister  of  his  was  married  to  our  early  admir- 
able friend  Edward  Holmes,  who,  after  enjoying  scarcely 
more  than  two  years  of  happy  wedded  life  with  her, — 
of  which  he  sent  us  a  charming  account  in  his  letters  to 
us  when  we  had  quitted  England, — passed  from  earth  for 
ever  towards  the  close  of  the  year  1859. 

To  our  brother-in-law  Mr.  Serle  we  owe  the  pleasure 
of  having  known  yet  another  accomplished  writer, — Mr. 
John  Oxenford,  whom  we  used  frequently  to  see  in  the 
boxes  at  the  theatres  after  his  highly  poetical  and 
romantic  melodrama,  entitled  "  The  Dice  of  Death,"  had 
interested  us  in  it  and  him  by  its  first  performances.  In 
wonderful  contrast  to  the  sombre  Faustian  grandeur  of 
this  piece  came  the  out-and  out  fun  and  frolic  of  his  two 
farces,  "  A  Day  Well  Spent  "  and  "  My  Fellow  Clerk," 
proving  him  to  be  a  master  of  versatility  in  dramatic' 
arL 


«s 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Macready— Thomas  Carlyle— Leigh  Hunt— Richard  Cobden 
— John  Bright— Charles  Pelham  VilHers— George  Wilson 
— W.J.  Fox — Sir  John  Bowring — Colonel  Perronet  Thomp- 
son— Mrs.  Cobden — Thomas  Hood — Julia  Kavanagh— 
Mrs.  Loudon — Rev.  Edward  Tagart — Edwin  and  Charles 
Landseer — Martin — Miss  Martin — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joseph 
Bonomi — Owen  Jones — Noel  Humphreys — Mr.  and  Mrs, 
Milner  Gibson — Louis  Blanc — William  Jerdan — Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson — Mrs.  Gaskell — Charles  Dickens — John 
Forster — Mark  Lemon — John  Leech — Augustus  Egg — 
George  Cruikshank — Frank  Stone — F.  W.  Topham— 
George  H.  Lewes — Charles  Knight — J.  Payne  Collier — 
Sheriff  Gordon  —  Robert  Chambers  —  Lord  and  Lady 
Ellesmere. 

One  of  the  proudest  privileges  among  the  many  pleasures 
we  received  from  Macready  w^as  that  of  writing  our  m,me 
on  the  free  list  at  the  London  theatres  where  he  was 
manager;  and  we  shall  not  readily  forget  the  exultant 
sense  of  distinction  with  which  w^e  wrote  for  the  first  time 
in  the  huge  tome, — that  magic  book, — which  conferred 
the  right  of  entry  upon  those  who  might  put  their  signa- 
tures there.  Once,  as  we  stood  ready  to  pen  the  open- 
sesame  words,  we  heard  a  deep  voice  near  to  us,  and  saw 
a  lofty  figure  with  a  face  that  had  something  ot  un- 
doubted authority  and  superiority  in  its  marked  lines. 
Voice,  figure,  face,  at  once  impressed  us  so  potently  that 
we  instinctively  drew  back  and  yielded  him  precedence ; 


86         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

and  when  he,  with  courteous  inclination  of  the  majestic 
head,  accepted  the  priority,  signed  his  name,  and  went 
on,  we,  advancing,  saw  traced  on  the  hne  above  the  one 
where  we  were  to  write,  the  honoured  syllables — "  Thomas 
Carlyle."  It  may  be  imagined  with  what  reverence  we 
placed  our  names  beneath  his  and  followed  him  up  the 
staircase  into  the  theatre. 

Not  very  long  after  that  we  met  him  on  a  superlatively 
interesting  occasion.  Leigh  Hunt  had  invited  a  few 
friends  with  ourselves  to  hear  him  read  his  newly-written 
play  ot  "  A  Legend  of  Florence ;"  and  Thomas  Carlyle 
was  among  these  friends.  The  hushed  room,  its  general 
low  light, — for  a  single  well-shaded  lamp  close  by  the 
reader  formed  the  sole  point  of  illumination, — the 
scarcely-seen  faces  around,  all  bent  in  fixed  attention 
upon  the  perusing  figure ;  the  breathless  presence  of  so 
many  eager  listeners,  all  remains  indelibly  stationed  in 
the  memory,  never  to  be  effaced  or  weakened.  It  was 
not  surpassed  in  interest, — though  strangely  contrasted  in 
dazzle  and  tumult, — when  the  play  was  brought  out  at 
Covent  Garden  Theatre,  and  Leigh  Hunt  was  called  on 
to  the  stage  at  its  conclusion  to  receive  the  homage  of  a 
public  who  had  long  known  him  through  his  delightful 
writings,  and  now  caught  at  this  opportunity  to  let  him 
feel  and  see  and  hear  their  admiration  of  those  past  works 
as  well  as  of  his  present  poetical  play.  A  touching  sight 
was  it  to  see  that  honoured  head,  grown  grey  in  the 
cause  of  letters  and  in  the  ceaseless  promotion  of  all  that 
is  tasteful  and  graceful,  good  and  noble,  a  head  that  we 
remembered  jet  black  with  thick,  clustered  hair,  and 
held  proudly  up  with  youthful  poet  thought  and  patriot 
ardour,  now  silvered  and  gently  inclined  to  receive  the 
applause   thus   for  the  first  time  publicly  and  face  to 


THOMAS  CARLYLE.  87 

facedly  showered  upon  it ;  ihe  figure  that  had  always 
held  apart  its  quiet,  studious  course,  devoted  to  patient, 
ardent  composition,  now  standing  there  in  sight  of  men 
and  women  the  centre  of  a  thousand  grateful  and  ad- 
miring eyes.  His  face  was  pale,  his  manner  staid  and 
simple  :  as  if  striving  for  composure  to  bear  an  incense 
that  profoundly  stirred  him,  a  kind  of  resolute  calm- 
ness assumed  to  master  the  natural  timidity  of  a  man  un- 
accustomed to  numerous  and  overt  testimony  of  approba- 
tion \  and  as  if  there  were  a  struggle  between  his  desire  to  • 
show  his  affectionate  sense  of  his  fellow-men's  liking,  and 
his  dread  lest  he  should  be  overcome  by  it.  As  he  with- 
drew from  the  ovation  it  was  evident  that  the  man  of 
retired  habits  was  both  glad  and  sorry,  both  relieved  and 
regretting,  to  leave  this  shouting,  welcoming,  hurraing 
crowd. 

There  was  a  public  occasion  that  brought  us  into 
contact  with  several  noteworthy  men  of  the  time, — the 
Anti-Corn-Law  Meetings  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
and  the  Anti-Corn- Law-League  Bazaar,  held  there  in  aid 
of  the  funds  needed  for  the  promotion  of  their  object. 
Richard  Cobden,  John  Bright,  Charles  Pelham  Villiers, 
George  Wilson,  W.  J.  Fox,  John  Bowring  (afterwards  Sir 
John),  and  Colonel  Perronet  Thompson  (afterwards 
General)  were  among  the  chief  of  these  eloquent  and 
earnest  speakers.  An  excellent  hit  was  made  by  Mr.  Fox 
one  night,  when  dancing  was  proposed  to  be  got  up 
after  the  speeches,  and  some  of  the  demure  and  over- 
righteous  objected  to  it  as  indecorous.  Instead  of  an- 
swering their  objection  he  took  a  most  ingenious  course. 
He  rose  to  address  the  audience,  and  said,  "  I  under- 
stand that  dancing  is  about  to  take  place,  and  that  some 
inconsiderate  persons  have   insisted  that  everybody  shall 


83         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

dance,  myself  among  the  number.  Now  any  one  who 
looks  for  a  moment  at  me  must  perceive  that  my  figure 
wholly  disqualifies  me  for  a  dancer,  and  would  render  it 
entirely  unbecoming  in  me  to  take  part  in  an  amusement 
that  is  charming  for  the  young  and  the  slender.  I  beg  you 
will  excuse  me  from  joining  you;  but  pray,  all  you  who 
enjoy  dancing  and  can  dance  have  dancing  at  once." 
Fox  had  a  neat,  epigrammatic  mode  of  expressing  himself 
that  told  admirably  in  some  of  the  Anti-Corn-Law- League 
speeches.  In  one  of  them,  as  an  illustration  that  England 
depends  upon  France  for  many  luxuries,  he  said,  "  A 
rich  Englishman  has  a  French  cook  that  dresses  his 
dinner  for  hira,  and  a  French  valet  that  dresses  him  for 
his  dinner. 

Of  Richard  Cobden's  delightful  society  we  had  the 
honour  and  pleasure  of  enjoying  a  few  perfect  days  in 
familiar  home  intercourse,  several  years  afterwards  abroad ; 
he  and  his  wife  coming  over  from  Cannes  and  taking  up 
their  abode  under  our  cottage  roof  at  Nice  in  the 
most  easy,  friendly,  unaffected  way  imaginable.  Of  one 
Christmas  Eve  especially  we  retain  strong  recollection  : 
when  Mrs.  Cobden  sat  helping  us  women-folk  to  stone 
raisins,  cut  candied  fruits,  slice  almonds,  and  otherwise 
to  make  housewifely  preparation  for  the  morrow's  plum- 
pudding— a  British  institution  never  allowed  to  pass  into 
desuetude  in  our  family — while  Cobden  himself  read 
aloud  the  English  newspapers  to  us  in  his  own  peculiar, 
practical,  perspicuous  way — going  through  the  Par- 
liamentary debates  line  by  line  :  and  as  he  came  to 
each  member  mentig  ned  we  observed  that  he  invariably 
added  in  parenthesis  the  constituency  as  thus  : — "  Mr. 
Roebuck  [Bath]  observed  that  if  Mr.  Disraeli  [Bucking- 
hamshire] thought  that  Mr.  Bright  [Birmingham]  intended 


RICHARD  COBDEN~COL.  THOMPSON.   89 

to  say,"  etc.  It  was  as  though  Cobden  had  made  this  a 
set  rule,  so  that  he  might  well  fix  in  his  mind  each  in- 
dividual and  the  constituency  he  represented. 

With  Colonel  Perronet  Thompson  we  subsequently 
met  under  very  pathetic  circumstances.  It  was  by  the 
bedside  of  a  poor  young  lady  in  St.  George's  Hospital, 
whose  friends  had  asked  him  to  go  and  see  her  there 
while  she  was  in  London  hoping  for  cure,  and  who 
had  hkewise  been  recommended  to  our  occasional  visita- 
tion during  her  stay  in  that  excellent  establishment.  It 
was  by  her  own  brave  wish  that  she  had  come  up  to  town 
from  a  distant  northern  county,  and  the  visits  of  the 
benevolent- hearted  veteran  were  most  cheering  to  her. 
His  steel-grey  hair,  his  ruddy  complexion,  his  bright, 
intelligent  eyes,  his  encouraging  smile,  his  enlivening 
conversation,  shed  a  reflection  of  fortitude  and  trust 
around  her,  and  made  her  youthful  face  kindle  into 
renewed  expectation  of  recovery  as  he  spoke.  The 
expectation  was  ultimately  and  joyfully  fulfilled  ;  for  she 
was  so  completely  cured  of  her  spinal  complaint  as  to 
return  to  her  home  able  to  walk,  to  resume  her  active 
duties,  and,  finally,  to  marry  happily  and  well. 

It  was  not  long  before  tlie  last  illness  of  Thomas 
Hood  that  I  (C.  C.  C.)  met  him  at  the  house  of  a  mutual 
friend,  when  his  worn,  pallid  look  strangely  belied  the 
effect  of  jocularity  and  high  spirits  conveyed  by  his 
writings.  He  punned  incessantly  but  languidly,  almost 
as  if  unable  to  think  in  any  other  way  than  in  play  upon 
words.  His  smile  was  attractively  sweet  :  it  bespoke 
the  affectionate-natured  man  which  his  serious  verses — • 
those  especially  addressed  to  his  wife  or  to  his  children — 
show  him  to  be  ;  and  it  also  revealed  the  depth  of  pathos 
in  his  soul  that  inspired  his  "  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  "  Song  of 


90         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

the  Shirt,"  and  "Eugene  Aram."  The  large-hearted 
feeUng  he  had  for  his  fellow-men  and  his  prompt  sym- 
pathy for  them  were  testified  by  his  including  me — we 
having  met  but  this  once — in  the  list  of  friends  to  whom 
he  sent  on  his  death-bed  a  copy  of  the  then  recently 
engraved  bust-portrait  of  himself,  subscribed  by  a  few 
words  of  "  kind  regard"  in  his  own  handwriting. 

While  we  were  living  at  Bayswater  some  friends  came 
to  see  us,  accompanied  by  a  young  lady  who,  with  her 
mother,  was  a  neighbour  of  theirs,  and  in  whom  they 
took  much  interest,  from  her  intellectual  superiority  and 
her  enthusiasm  of  nature.  She  had  luminous,  dark 
eyes,  with  an  elevated  and  spiritual  cast  of  countenance ; 
and  was  gentle  and  deferential  in  manner  to  her  mother, 
and  very  kind  and  companionable  towards  the  children 
of  our  friends,  who  had  a  large  family  of  boys  and  girls, 
eager  in  play,  active  in  juvenile  pursuits,  after  the  wont  of 
their  race.  She  seemed  ever  at  hand  to  attend  upon  her 
mother,  ever  ready  to  enter  into  the  delights  of  the  child 
neighbours ;  and  yet  she  was  devoted  heart  and  soul  to 
the  ambition  of  becoming  an  authoress,  and  spent  hours 
in  qualifying  herself  for  the  high  vocation.  Some  time 
afterwards  we  read  her  most  charming  novel  of  "  Na- 
thalie," and  found  that  the  young  lady  of  the  dark  eyes 
and  gentle,  unassuming  deportment,  Julia  Kavanagh, 
had  commenced  her  career  of  popular  novelist,  which 
thenceforth  never  stinted  or  ceased  in  its  prosperous 
course. 

Our  pretty  homestead.  Craven-hill  Cottage,  Bayswater, 
was  one  of  the  last  lingering  remains  of  the  old  primitive 
simplicity  of  that  neighbourhood,  ere  it  became  built 
upon  with  modern  houses,  squares,  and  terraces.  Of  our 
own  particular  nook  in  that  parent-nest —the  last  that  we 


MJ^S.  LOUDON.  91 

dwelt  in  together  \yith  our  loved  father  and  mother,  ere 
they  migrated  to  the  Continent  for  warmer  winters — 
Leigh  Hunt  once  said,  "  This  is  the  most  poetical  room 
in  a  most  poetical  house."  It  was  a  very  small  abode, 
and  required  close  packing ;  but,  for  people  loving  each 
other  as  its  inmates  did,  it  was  a  very  snug  and  happy 
home. 

We  had  two  houses  close  by  us  that  contained  very 
kindly  and  pleasant  neighbour  friends.  One  was  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Loudon  and  her  daughter ;  the  other  that 
of  the  Rev.  Edward  Tagart,  his  wife  and  his  family.  vSo 
near  to  us  were  they  that  we  could  at  any  time  put  on 
hat,  hood,  or  shawl  over  evening-dress  and  walk  to  and 
from  the  pleasant  parties  that  were  given  there.  Nay,  on 
one  occasion,  when  Sheridan's  "  Rivals  "  was  got  up  at 
Mrs.  Loudon's  by  her  daughter  and  some  of  their  friends, 
the  Mrs.  Malaprop,  the  Lucy,  and  the  David  went  on 
foot  ready  dressed  for  their  respective  parts  from  Craven- 
hill  Cottage  to  No.  3,  Porchtster  Terrace,  with  merely  a 
cloak  thrown  over  their  stage  costume.s.  The  David  also 
enacted  Thomas  the  Coachman,  "  doubling  the  parts," 
as  it  is  called;  so  that  he  went  in  his  many-caped 
driving-coat  over  his  David's  dress.  It  chanced  that  he 
arrived  just  as  the  gentleman  who  was  to  play  Fag  was 
drinking  tea  with  Mrs.  Loudon,  and  she  gave  a  cup  also 
to  the  new  arrival.  Afterwards  she  told  us  that  she  had 
been  much  amused  by  learning  that  one  of  her  maids 
had  been  overheard  to  say,  "  It's  very  strange,  but 
missus  is  taking  tea  with  two  livery  servants." 

At  Mrs.  Loudon's  house  we  met  several  persons  of 
note  and  name :  the  Landseers,  Edwin  and  Charles ; 
Martin,  the  paintei  of  "  Belshazzar's  Feast,"  &c.  ;  his 
clever-headed    and    amiable    daughter.    Miss    Martin ; 


92         RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

Joseph  Bonomi,  and  his  wife,  who  was  another  daughter 
of  Martin ;  Owen  Jones,  Noel  Humphreys,  Mr.  and 
Mrs,  Milner  Gibson,  Louis  Blanc,  William  Jerdan,  and 
others. 

On  one  occasion,  when  Mrs.  Loudon  gave  a  fancy 
ball,  few  costumes,  among  the  many  very  handsome  and 
characteristic  ones  that  gave  picturesque  variety  to  the 
scene,  were  more  strikingly  beautiful  and  artistic — as 
might  be  expected — than  those  of  Owen  Jones  and  the 
Bonomis. 

Under  Mr.  Tagart's  roof  we  had  the  gratification  of 
meeting  one  evening  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  who  did  one 
of  the  company  the  honour  of  requesting  to  be  introduced 
to  her,  and  paid  her  a  kind  compliment ;  while  she,  be  it 
now  confessed,  was  so  occupied  with  a  passage  in  one  of 
his  Essays  that  she  had  that  morning  been  perusing  with 
delight,  and  so  longed  to  quote  it  to  him  and  thank  him 
for  it,  yet  was  so  confused  with  the  mingled  fear  of  not 
repeating  it  accurately  and  the  dread  of  appearing  mad  if 
she  did  venture  to  give  utterance  to  what  was  passing  in 
her  mind,  that  she  has  often  since  had  a  pang  of  doubt 
that,  as  it  was,  she  must  have  struck  Emerson  as  pecu- 
liarly dull  and  absent  and  unconscious  of  the  pleasure  he 
really  gave  her. 

One  forenoon  Mrs.  Tagart,  in  her  usual  amiable, 
thoughtful  way,  sent  round  to  say  that  she  expected  Mrs. 
Gaskell  to  lunch,  and  would  we  come  and  meet  her  ? 
Joyfully  did  we  accept ;  and  delightful  was  the  meeting. 
We  found  a  charming,  briUiant-complexioned,  but  quiet- 
mannered  vroman ;  thoroughly  unaffected,  thoroughly 
attractive — so  modest  that  she  blushed  like  a  girl  when 
we  hazarded  some  expression  of  our  ardent  admiration  of 
her  "  Mary  Barton ; "  so  full  of  enthusiasm  on  general 


MRS.  GASKELL.  93 

subjects  of  humanity  and  benevolence  that  she  talked 
freely  and  vividly  at  once  upon  them  ;  and  so  young  in 
look  and  demeanour  that  we  could  hardly  believe  her  to 
be  the  mother  of  two  daughters  she  mentioned  in  terms 
that  showed  them  to  be  no  longer  children.  In  a  cor- 
respondence that  afterwards  passed  between  her  and  our- 
selves, on  the  subject  of  an  act  of  truly  valuable  kindness 
she  was  performing  anonymously  for  a  young  lady  anxious 
to  become  a  public  singer,  Mrs.  Gaskeli  showed  herself 
to  be  actuated  by  the  purest  and  noblest  motives  in  all  she 
did.  She  tried  her  utmost  to  prevent  her  agency  in  the 
affair  from  being  discovered ;  giving  as  her  reason  the 
dread  that  if  it  were  known  it  might  tend  to  "  injure  the 
freedom  of  the  intercourse "  between  herself  and  the 
young  lady  in  question  ;  adding,  "  for  I  want  her  to  look 
upon  me  as  a  friend  rather  than  as  a  benefactor." 

It  was  at  a  party  at  the  Tagarts'  house  that  we  were 
introduced  by  Leigh  Hunt  to  Charles  Dickens  ;  when  an 
additional  light  and  delight  seemed  brought  into  our  life. 
He  had  been  so  long  known  to  us  in  our  own  home  as 
"  Dear  Dickens,"  or  "  Darling  Dickens,"  as  we  eagerly 
read,  month  after  month,  the  moment  they  came  out,  the 
successive  numbers  of  his  gloriously  original  and  heart- 
stirring  productions,  that  to  be  presented  to  "  Mr. 
Charles  Dickens,"  and  to  hear  him  spoken  of  as  "  Mr. 
Dickens,"  seemed  quite  strange.  That  very  evening — • 
immediately — we  felt  at  home  and  at  ease  with  him. 
Genial,  bright,  lively-spirited,  pleasant-toned,  he  entered 
into  conversacion  with  a  grace  and  charm  that  made  it 
feel  perfectly  natural  to  be  chatting  and  laughing  as  if  we 
had  known  each  other  from  childhood.  So  hearty  was 
his  enjoyment  of  what  we  were  talking  of  that  it  caught 
the  attention  of  our  hostess,  and  she  came  up  to  inquire 


94         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

what  it  could  be  that  amused  Mr.  Dickens  so  much.  It 
was  no  other  than  the  successive  pictures  that  had  then 
lately  appeared  in  Punch  of  Mr.  Punch  himself  j  two, 
in  particular,  we  recollect  made  Dickens  laugh,  as  we 
recalled  them,  till  the  tears  glistened  in  his  eyes  with  a 
keen  sense  of  the  fun  and  ridiculous  absurdity  in  the 
attitudes.  They  were,  Mr.  Punch  as  Caius  Marius  seated 
amid  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  and  Mr.  Punch  swimming  in 
the  sea  near  to  a  bathing-machine.  Charles  Dickens  had 
that  acute  perception  of  the  comic  side  of  things  which 
causes  irrepressible  brimming  of  the  eyes  ;  and  what  eyes 
his  were  !  Large,  dark  bkie,  exquisitely  shaped,  fringed 
with  magnificently  long  and  thick  lashes — they  now  swam 
in  liquid,  limpid  suffusion,  when  tears  started  into  them 
from  a  sense  of  humour  or  a  sense  of  pathos,  and  now 
darted  quick  flashes  of  fire  when  some  generous  indigna- 
tion at  injustice,  or  some  high-wrought  feeling  of  admira- 
tion at  magnanimity,  or  some  sudden  emotion  of  interest 
and  excitement  touched  him.  Swift-glancing,  appreci- 
ative, rapidly  observant,  truly  superb  orbits  they  were, 
worthy  of  the  other  features  in  his  manly,  handsome  face. 
The  mouth  was  singularly  mobile,  full-lipped,  well-shaped, 
a.nd  expressive  ;  sensitive,  nay  restless,  in  its  suscepti- 
bility to  impression  that  swayed  him,  or  sentiment  that 
moved  him.  He,  who  saw  into  apparently  slightest 
trifles  that  were  fraught  to  his  perception  with  deepest 
significance;  he,  who  beheld  human  nature  with  insight 
almost  superhuman,  and  who  revered  good  and  abhorred 
evil  with  intensity,  showed  instantaneously  by  his  expres- 
sive countenance  the  kind  of  idea  that  possessed  him. 
This  made  his  conversation  enthralling,  his  acting  first- 
rate,  and  his  reading  superlative. 
All  three  it  has  been  our  good-hap  to  enjoy  completely ; 


CHARLES  DICKENS.  95 

and  that  we  have  had  this  enjoyment  will  last  us  as  a 
source  of  blest  consciousness  so  long  as  we  live. 

His  having  heard  of  the  recent  private  performance  of 
"  The  Rivals  "  caused  Charles  Dickens  that  very  evening 
of  our  first  seeing  him  to  allude  in  obliging  terms  to  the 
"  golden  opinions "  he  understood  my  Mrs.  Malaprop 
had  won ;  and  this  led  to  my  telling  him  that  I  under- 
stood he  was  organizing  an  amateur  company  to  play 
Shakespeare's  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"'  and  that  I 
should  be  only  too  delighted  if  he  would  have  me  for  his 
Dame  Quickly.  He  at  first  took  this  for  a  playfully-made 
off"er ;  but  afterwards,  finding  I  made  it  seriously  and  in 
all  good  faith,  he  accepted  :  the  details  of  this  enchanting 
episode  in  my  life  I  reserve  till  we  come  to  our  Letters 
and  Recollections  of  Charles  Dickens ;  but  meanwhile  I 
may  mention  that  it  brought  us  into  most  pleasant  ac- 
quaintance with  John  Forster,  Mark  Lemon,  John  Leech, 
Augustus  Egg,  George  Cruikshank,  Frank  Stone,  F.  W. 
Topham,  George  H.  Lewes,  and,  correlatively,  with 
Charles  Knight,  J.  Payne  Collier,  Sheriff  Gordon,  and 
Robert  Chambers.  Of  those  who  were  fellow-actors  in 
the  glorious  amateur  company  further  will  be  said  in  the 
place  above  pre-referred  to ;  but  of  the  four  last-named 
men  it  is  pleasant  to  speak  at  once.  Both  Charles 
Knight  and  J.  Payne  Collier  in  their  conduct  towards  us 
thoroughly  reversed  the  more  usual  behaviour  of  Shake- 
spearian editors  and  commentators  among  each  other  : 
for  Charles  Knight  was  marked  in  his  courtesy  and  kind- 
ness, -while  Payne  Collier  went  so  far  as  to  entrust  the 
concluding  volume  of  his  1842-4  edition  of  Shakespeare, 
which  was  then  still  in  manuscript,  to  Mary  Cowden 
Clarke,  that  she  might  collate  his  readings  and  incor- 
porate them  in  her  "  Concordance  "  before  publication, 


96         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

though  she  was  then  personally  unknown  to  him.  And 
when  in  1848  she  played  Mistress  Quickly  at  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  on  the  evening  of  the  15th  of  May, 
Payne  Collier  came  round  to  the  green-room,  introduced 
himself  to  her,  told  her  he  had  just  come  from  the  box 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Ellesmere,  charged  with  their  compli- 
ments on  her  mode  of  acting  the  character,  and  then — 
with  a  chivalrous  air  of  gallantry  that  well  became  one 
whose  knighthood  had  been  won  in  Shakespearian  fields 
— added  that  before  taking  leave  he  wished  to  kiss  the 
hand  that  had  written  the  "  Concordance."  This  gave 
her  the  opportunity  she  had  long  wished  for,  of  thanking 
him  for  the  act  of  confidence  he  had  performed  in  pre- 
vious years,  of  entrusting  one  unknown  to  him  with  his 
unprinted  manuscript.  It  is  pleasant  to  record  incidents 
that  so  completely  refute  the  alleged  hostility  of  feeling 
that  exists  between  authors  ;  and  to  show  them,  on  the 
contrary,  as  they  mostly  are,  mutually  regardful  and 
respectful. 

John  T.  Gordon,  Sheriff  of  Mid-Lothian,  was  one  of 
the  most  genial,  frank-mannered,  hearty-spoken  men  that 
ever  lived.  His  sociality  and  hospitality  were  of  the 
most  engaging  kind  ;  and  his  personal  intercourse  was  as 
inspiriting  as  his  expressions  of  friendliness  in  his  letters 
were  cordial. 

Of  Robert  Chambers's  friendly,  open-armed  reception 
to  those  who  went  to  Edinburgh  and  needed  introduction 
to  the  beauties  of  this  Queen  City  of  North  Britain,  no 
terms  can  be  too  strong  or  too  high.  He  placed  himself 
at  the  disposal  of  such  visitors  with  the  utmost  unreserve 
and  the  most  unwearied  kindness ;  and  no  man  was 
better  fitted  to  act  cicerone  by  the  most  interesting  among 
the  numerous  noteworthy  objects  there  to  be  seen.     He 


ROBERT  CHAMBERS.  97 

shone  to  great  advantage  himself  while  indicating  them  ; 
for  his  talk  was  intelligent,  clear,  well-informed,  and 
extremely  pleasant.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  afresh  the 
things  he  was  discussing  and  displaying  for  the  thousandth 
time;  and  to  be  as  much  interested  in  them  himself, 
as  he  made  them  doubly  and  trebly  interesting  to  the 
person  he  was  guiding. 


98         RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Lord  Murray— John  Hunter— Mrs.  Stirling— Mrs.  Catherine 
Crowe — Alexander  Christie— Professor  Pillans — William 
Smith — R.  Mackay  Smith — Henry  Bowie— Robert  Cox — 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Hodgson  —  Samuel  Timmins  —  George 
Dawson — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Follett  Osier — Arthur  Ryland — • 
Francis  Clark — Mathew  Davenport  Hill — Rowland  Hill 
— ^John  Adamson — Henry  Barry  Peacock — Beddoes  Pea- 
cock— Robert  Ferguson — Westland  Marston — Robert 
Charles  Leslie — Clarkson  Stanfield — Sydney  Dobell — 
Henry  Chorley — Mrs.  Newton  Crosland — Miss  Mulock — 
John  Rolt — John  Varley — William  Etty — Leslie — William 
Havell. 

During  the  twenty-one  years  that  I  (C  C.  C.)  lectured  in 
London  and  the  provinces  scarcely  any  place  surpassed 
Edinburgh  in  the  warmth  and  cordiality  with  which  I 
was  not  only  received  in  the  lecture-room,  but  welcomed 
into  private  homes  by  kindly  hospitable  men  and  women. 
The  two  men  just  named ;  Lord  Murray ;  John  Hunter 
of  Craig  Cook  (the  "  friend  of  Leigh  Hunt's  verse,"  to 
whom  was  inscribed  his  lovely  verse-story  of  "  Godiva  ") ; 
.John  Hunter's  talented  sister,  Mrs.  Stirling  (authoress 
of  two  gracefully  moral  novels,  *'  Fanny  Hervey  "  and 
"  Sedgely  Court ") ;  Mrs.  Catherine  Crowe  (one  of  the 
earliest  and  perhaps  most  forcible  of  the  sensational 
school  of  romancists)  ;  Alexander  Christie  (whose  fine 
painting  of  "  Othello's  Despair "   was  presented,  while 


GEORGE  DAWSON— FRANCIS  CLARK.  59 

still  personally  unknown,  to  M.  C.  C,  and  which  still  is 
daily  before  our  eyes  in  the  picture  gallery  at  Villa 
Novello) ;  Professor  Pillans,  William  Smith,  R.  Mackay 
Smith,  Henry  Bowie,  and  Robert  Cox,— are  all  names 
associated  with  many  a  brilliant  and  jovial  hour  spent 
in  "  canny  Edinburgh."  With  Liverpool  come  thronging 
pleasant  hospitable  reminiscences  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard 
Yates  (linked  in  delightful  memory  as  co-travellers  with 
Harriet  Martineau  in  her  admirable  book  of  "  Eastern 
Life  Past  and  Present ") ;  and  of  Dr.  (erudite  as  kindly 
and  kindly  as  erudite)  and  Mrs.  Hodgson  (worthy  help- 
meet, but,  alas  !  now  lost  to  him).  W^ith  Birmingham 
troop  to  mind  visions  of  friendliest  and  constantest 
Samuel  Timmins ;  of  George  Dawson,  as  we  first  beheld 
him  there,  a  youth  gifted  with  extraordinary  oratorical 
eloquence  ;  of  hospitable  Mr.  and  Mrs.  FoUett  Osier ;  of 
obliging  and  agreeably-epistolary  Arthur  Ryland ;  and  of 
Francis  Clark  and  his  numerous  family,  who  subsequently 
sought  health  in  the  milder-climed  region  of  Australia. 
A  copy  of  the  Adelaide  Observer,  containing  a  very 
pleasant  and  broadly  humorous  Anglicised  iteration  of 
the  old  French  romance  poem  of  "  The  Grey  Palfrey  " 
(from  which  Leigh  Hunt  took  the  ground-work  for  his 
poetical  tale  called  "  The  Palfrey  "),  written  by  Howard 
Clark,  one  of  the  sons  of  Francis  Clark  (who  is  himself 
no  longer  living),  reached  me  lately  and  brought  the 
whole  family  to  my  pleased  recollection.  The  Clarks  are 
related  to  the  Hills  of  Birmingham,  the  proprietors  and 
conductors  of  their  eminent  scholastic  establishment  of 
Hazlewood,  so  eminent  as  to  have  attracted  the  favour- 
able opinion  of  so  avowed  an  authority  as  the  Edinburgh 
Reviewers,  The  widow  of  Francis  Clark,  and  mother  of 
the  many  children   who    survive  him,   is  sister  to   the 

H    2 


loo       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Hills, — to  the  eminently  intellectual  and  quite  as 
deliglitful  late  excellent  Recorder  of  Birmingham,  Mathew 
Davenport  Hill ;  and  to  the  man  among  the  blessedest 
benefactors  of  the  human  race, — the  illustrious  and 
adored  re-creator  of  the  postal  delivery — Rowland  Hill ; 
who  has  brought  socialism — affectionate  and  commercial 
— to  humane  perfection  all  over  the  world;  who  enabled 
the  labourer  at  Stoke  Pogis  to  communicate  with  a  brother 
or  friend 

In  Borneo's  isle,  where  lives  the  strange  ape. 
The  ourang-outang  almost  human  in  shape. 

At  Newcastle  I  met  with  the  scholarly  John  Adamson, 
author  of  "  Lusitania  lUustrata ;"  and  on  my  way  thither 
I  encountered  a  being  of  whom  I  cannot  do  other  now 
than  linger  a  few  moments  to  speak.  My  most  amiable 
and  earliest  northern  friend,  Henry  Barry  Peacock,  of  Man- 
chester, hearing  that  I  was  engaged  at  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
recommended  me  to  pause  on  my  journey  thither  at 
Darlington,  where  he  would  introduce  me  to  his  cousin, 
Beddoes  Peacock,  the  medical  professor  of  the  district. 
This  was  one  of  the  most  interesting  events  of  my  social 
intercourse  in  life.  In  the  first  instance,  I  was  intro- 
duced to  a  pale,  bland,  most  cheerful-looking,  and  some- 
what young  man,  lying  out  upon  a  sofa,  from  which  he 
did  not  rise  to  greet  me.  His  manner  and  tone  of 
reception  were  so  graceful,  and  so  remarkable  was  the 
expression  of  an  un-commonplace  pair  of  eyes,  that  I 
felt  suddenly  released  from  the  natural  suspension  of  an 
immediate  familiarity.  He  first  of  all  explained  the 
cause  of  his  not  rising  to  receive  me.  It  was,  that  he 
could  only  move  the  upper  part  of  his  frame.  His 
coachman    and    "  total-help "  lifted  him  from  sofa   to 


DR.  PEACOCK.  loi 

dinner-table ;  and,  finally  to  his  night-couch,  which  was 
a  regular  hospital  water-bed.  This  is  the  most  indefinite 
outline  (for  the  moment)  that  I  can  give  of  the  daily- 
course  of  action  of  this  most  intensely  — most  attractively 
engrossing  being,  who  fulfilled  a  constant  series  of 
medical,  and  (if  requisite)  of  even  surgical  practice. 
With  all  his  impedimental  difficulties,  so  thoroughly,  so 
profoundly  esteemed  was  Dr.  Peacock  that  his  patients — 
lady-patients  included — submitted  to  his  being  brought 
by  his  coachman  to  their  bedside.  This  is  a  bare 
glance  at  his  then  course  of  life;  with  equal  brevity 
I  inform  my  readers  that  in  his  younger  days  he  was 
a  very  active  and  athletic  sportsman,  ready  for  every 
action  required,  from  the  chase  of  the  otter  to  the  stag- 
hunt.  One  day,  by  some  accident — the  particulars  of 
which  (for  evident  reason)  I  would  not  require  of  himself — 
two  men  were  in  danger  of  drowning — one  trying  to  save 
the  other,  and  both  being  unable  to  swim — Dr.  Peacock 
darted  into  the  water,  bade  them  be  quiet,  and  hold 
back  their  heads.  They  were  fortunately  near  enough  to 
the  bank  for  him  to  pull  them  within  their  depth,  and 
he  saved  both.  Whether  from  the  noble  service  he  then 
performed,  or  whether  from  some  indescribable  cause 
unknown  to  himself  and  his  scientific  brethren,  he, 
shortly  after  this  heroic  act,  was  seized  with  the  calamitous 
affection  above  described.  My  own  opinion  is,  that  the 
attack  was  indigenous  \  for  his  sister  was  prostrated  with 
the  same  complaint ;  and  every  day,  when  he  went  out 
professionally,  he  always  drove  by  her  house ;  and  she, 
expecting  him,  was  always  lying  by  her  window,  when 
they  cheerfully  nodded  to  each  other.  I  have  known 
very  few  individuals — not  exclusively  devoted  to  literary 
studies — who  possessed  so  decided  an  accomplishment  in 


I02        RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

high-class  conversation  :  he  was,  of  course,  in  education 
a  classic;  and  for  poetic  reading  he  had  a  passionate 
fondness.  Upon  receiving  a  presentation  copy  of  "  The 
Riches  of  Chaucer,"  he  acknowledged  the  gift  with  a 
sonnet,  which  I  feel  no  appreciator  of  poetical  composi- 
tion will  read  without  a  sympathetic  feeling  : — 

Full  many  a  year,  to  ease  the  baleful  stound 

Of  blows  by  Fortune  given,  in  mood  unkind, 

No  greater  balm  or  solace  could  I  find 
Than  wand'ring  o'er  the  sweet  oblivious  ground 
Where  Poets  dwell.     The  gardens  perfumed  round 

Of  modern  Bards  first  kept  me  long  in  thrall  : 
On  Shakespeare's  breezy  heights  at  length  I  found 

Freshness  eterne — trees,  flowers  that  never  pall. 
Nor  farther  wish'd  to  search.     A  friendly  voice 

Whisper'd,  "  Still  onward  !  much  remains  unsung ; 
Old  England's  youthful  days  shall  thee  rejoice, 

When  her  strong-hearted  Muse  first  found  a  tongue  : 
'Mongst  Chaucer's  groves  that  pathless  seem  and  dark 
Wealth  is  in  store  for  thee." — God  bless  you,  Clarke  ! 
4th  June,  1846.  Beddoes  Peacock. 

When  I  was  at  Carlisle  nothing  could  exceed  the 
frank  hospitality  of  Robert  Ferguson,  then  Mayor  of 
that  ancient  city  and  fine  border  town ;  and  he  subse- 
(piently  gratified  me  by  a  presentation  copy  of  each  of 
his  valuable  and  interesting  books — "  The  Shadow  of  the 
Pyramid,"  "The  Pipe  of  Repose,"  "Swiss  Men  and 
Swiss  Mountains,"  and  "  The  Northmen  of  Cumberfand 
and  Westmoreland." 

If  it  were  only  for  the  sterling  sound-headed  and 
sound-hearted  people  with  whom  my  lecture  career 
brought  me  into  delightful  connexion,  I  should  always 
look  back  upon  that  portion  of  my  life  with  a  sense  of 
gratification  and  gratitude. 


JOHN  ROLT.  103 

We  were  never  able  to  indulge  much  in  what  is  called 
"  Society,"  or  to  go  to  many  parties ;  but  at  the  few  to 
which  we  were  able  to  accept  invitations,  we  met  more 
than  one  person  whom  it  was  pleasure  and  privilege  to 
have  seen.  Westland  Marston,  Robert  Charles  Leslie, 
Clarkson  Stanfield,  Sydney  Dobell,  Henry  Chorley,  Mrs. 
Newton  Crosland  (with  whom  our  acquaintance  then 
formed  has  since  ripened  into  highly-valued  letter 
friendship),  and  Miss  Mulock,  we  found  ourselves  in 
company  with  ;  while  at  John  Rolt's  dinners  we  encoun- 
tered some  of  the  first  men  in  his  profession.  It  had 
been  our  joy  to  watch  the  rapid  rise  of  this  most 
interesting  and  most  intellectual  man,  from  his  youthful 
commencement  as  a  barrister,  through  his  promotion  as 
Queen's  Counsel,  his  honours  as  Solicitor-General 
Attorney-General,  Judge,  Sir  John  Rolt ;  and  always  to 
know  him  the  same  kindly,  cordial,  warm-hearted  friend, 
and  simple-mannered,  true  gentleman,  from  first  to  last. 
Whether,  as  the  young  rising  barrister,  with  his  modest 
suburban  home, — w^here  we  have  many  times  supped 
with  him,  and  been  from  thence  accompanied  by  him  on 
our  way  home  in  the  small  hours  after  midnight,  lured 
into  lengthened  sittings  by  his  enchanting  conversation 
and  taste  for  literary  subjects,  — or  whether  seated  at  the 
head  of  his  brilliant  dinner  circle  at  his  town-house -in 
Harley  Street, — or  when  he  was  master  of  Ozlevvorth 
Park,  possessed  of  all  the  wealth  and  dignity  that  his 
own  sole  individual  exertions  had  won  for  him, — Rolt 
was  an  impersonation  of  all  that  is  noble  and  admirable 
in  English  manhood.  With  a  singularly  handsome  face, 
eyes  that  were  at  once  penetrating  and  sweet,  and  a 
mouth  that  for  chiselled  beauty  of  shape  was  worthy  of 
belonging  to  one  of  the  sculptured  heads  of  Grecian 


• 


I04       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

antique  art,  he  was  as  winning  in  exterior  as  he  was 
attractive  from  mental  superiority;  and  when  we  have 
sometimes  sat  over  the  fire,  late  at  night,  after  the 
majority  of  his  guests  had  departed,  and  lingered  on, 
talking  of  Purcell's  music,  or  Goethe's  "  Wilhelm  Meister," 
or  any  topic  that  chanced  for  the  moment  to  engage  his 
thoughts,  we  have  felt  John  Rolt's  fascination  of  appear- 
ance and  talk  to  be  irresistibly  alluring. 

The  mention  of  two  great  artist  names  reminds  us  of 
the  exceptional  pleasure  we  have  had  from  what  inter- 
course we  have  enjoyed  with  celebrated  artists.  While  one 
of  us  was  still  in  her  childhood,  John  Varley  was  known 
to  her  father  and  mother  ;  and  one  or  two  of  his  choicest 
water-colour  pictures  are  still  in  careful  preservation  with 
us.  There  is  one  little  piece — a  view  of  Cader  Idris — 
on  a  small  square  of  drawing-paper,  that  might  easily  be 
covered  by  the  spread  palms  of  two  hands,  which  is  so 
exquisite  in  subdued  colouring  and  effect  of  light  on  a 
mountain-side,  that  William  Etty  used  to  say  of  it  that  it 
made  him  wish  he  had  been  a  water-colour  painter 
instead  of  a  painter  in  oils.  Once,  when  John  Varley 
came  to  see  his  friend  Vincent  Novello,  he  told  of  a 
circumstance  that  had  happened  which  excited  the 
strongest  sympathy  and  bitterest  wrath  in  the  hearers. 
It  appeared  that  a  new  maid-servant  had  taken  for  kind- 
ling her  fires  a  whole  drawer-full  of  his  water-colour 
sketches,  fancying  they  were  waste-paper  !  He  was  very 
eccentric  ;  and  at  one  time  had  a  whim  for  astrology, 
believing  himself  to  be  an  adept  in  casting  nativities. 
He  inquired  the  date  of  birth,  &c.,  of  Vincent  Novello's 
eldest  child ;  and  after  making  several  abstruse  calcula- 
tions of  *'  born  under  this  star,"  and  when  that  planet 
was  "  in  conjunction  with  t'other,"  &c.;  Iv.    assured  Mrs, 


WILLIAM  HAVELL— WILLIAM  ETTY.   105 

Novello  that  her  daughter  would  marry  late,  and  have  a 
numerous  family  of  children,  all  of  whom  would  die 
young.  The  daughter  in  question  married  early,  and 
never  had  a  single  child  ! 

Another  charming  water-colour  artist  known  to  the 
Novellos  was  William  Havell ;  one  of  whose  woody 
landscapes  is  still  in  treasured  existence,  as  well  as  a 
sketch  he  took  of  INI.  C.  C.  in  Dame  Quickly's  costume. 
Holland,  too,  the  landscape  painter,  was  pleasantly  known 
to  me  (C.  C.  C.) ;  and  on  one  occasion,  when  I  met  him 
at  the  house  of  a  mutual  friend,  he  showed  me  an 
exquisite  collection  of  remarkable  sunsets  that  he  had 
sketched  from  time  to  time  as  studies  for  future  use  and 
introduction  into  pictures. 

At  one  time  we  knew  William  Etty  well.  It  was  soon 
after  his  return  from  Ital)',  where  he  went  to  study  ;  and 
we  recollect  a  certain  afternoon,  when  we  called  upon 
him  in  his  studio  at  his  chambers  in  one  of  the  streets 
leading  off  from  the  Strand  down  to  the  Thames,  and 
found  him  at  his  easel,  whereon  stood  the  picture  he  was 
then  engaged  upon,  "  The  Be\y  of  Fair  Women,"  from 
INIilton's  "  Paradise  Lost."  We  remember  the  rich  reflec- 
tion of  colour  from  the  garland  of  orange  lilies  round  the 
waist  of  one  fair  creature  thrown  upon  the  white  creamy 
skin  of  the  figure  next  to  her,  and  Etty's  pleasure  when 
we  rapturized  over  the  effect  produced.  He  was  a 
worshipper  of  colour  effects,  and  we  recollect  the  enthu- 
siasm with  which  he  noticed  the  harmony  of  blended 
tints  produced  by  a  certain  goldy-brown  silk  dress  and  a 
canary-coloured  crape  kerchief  worn  by  one  of  his  visitors, 
as  she  stood  talking  to  him.  It  was  on  that  same  after- 
noon that  he  made  us  laugh  by  telling  us  of  an  order  he 
bad  to  paint  a  picture  for  some  society,  or  board,  or 


io6       RECOLLECTIONS  OL  WRITERS. 

company,  who  gave  him  for  his  subject  a  range  of  hne-of- 
battle  ships  giving  fire  in  a  full  broadside  !  Etty  roared 
with  laughter  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Me !  fancy  giving  me 
such  a  subject  !  !  Fancy  7ny  painting  a  battle  piece  ! !  !  " 
He  said  that  the  English,  generally  speaking,  had  little 
general  taste  or  knowledge  in  art,  adding,  "You  must 
always  take  an  Englishman  by  the  hand  and  lead  him  up 
to  a  painting,  and  say,  '  That's  a  good  picture,'  before  he 
can  really  perceive  its  merits." 

Of  Leslie  we  entertain  the  liveliest  recollection  on  an 
evening  when  we  met  him  at  a  party  and  he  fell  into 
conversation  about  Shakespeare's  women  as  suited  for 
painting,  and  asked  us  to  give  him  a  Shakespearian  subject 
for  his  next  picture.  We  suggested  the  meeting  between 
Viola  and  Olivia,  with  Maria  standing  by ;  seeing  in 
imagination  the  charming  way  in  which  Leslie  would 
have  given  the  just-withdrawn  veil  from  Olivia's  half- 
disdainful,  half-melting,  wholly  beautiful  face,  Viola's 
womanly  loveliness  in  her  page's  attire,  and  Maria's 
mischievous  roguery  of  look  as  she  watches  them  both. 

Clarkson  Stanfield  lives  vividly  in  our  memory,  as  we  last 
saw  him,  when  we  were  in  England  in  1S62,  in  his  pretty 
garden-surrounded  house  at  Hampstead.  He  showed  us 
a  portfolio  of  gorgeous  sketches  made  during  a  tour  in 
Italy,  two  of  which  remain  especially  impressed  upon  our 
mind.  One  was  a  bit  taken  on  Mount  Vesuvius  about 
daybreak,  with  volumes  of  volcanic  smoke  rolling  from 
the  near  crater,  touched  by  the  beams  of  the  rising  sun ; 
the  other  was  a  view  of  Esa,  a  picturesque  sea-side 
village  perched  on  the  summit  of  a  little  rocky  hill, 
bosomed  among  the  olive-clad  crags  and  cliffs  of  the 
Cornice  road  between  Nice  and  Turbia. 


X&7 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Publishers — Critics — George  James  De  Wilde — James  Lamb 
— Thomas  Pickering — Thomas  Latimer — Isaac  Latimer-— 
Alexander  Ireland — Samuel  Timmins — Mary  Balmanno 
— Austin  Allibone — Dr.  Charles  Stearns — Rev.  Dr.  Scadd- 
ing — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Howard  Furness — John  Watson 
Dalby— Mr.  and  Mrs.  Townshend  Mayer — Edmund  Oilier 
— Gerald  Massey— William  Lowes  Rushton — Frederick 
Rule — Dr.  C.  M.  Ingleby— Alexander  Main — His  Excel- 
lency   George    Perkins  Marsh — Mrs.   John  Farrar — Mrs. 

Somerville — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pulszky IMiss  Thackeray — 

Mrs.  William  Grey — Miss  Shirreff — John  Bell — Edward 
Novello — Barbara  Guschl — (Mme.  *  Gleitsman) — Clara 
Angela  Macirone — Mme.  Henrietta  Moritz — Herbert  New 
— Rev.  Alexander  Gordon — Rev.  John  Gordon — Mrs. 
Stirling  — Bryan  Waller  Procter — James  T.  Fields — Celia 
Thaxter. 

The  present  compliance  with  the  wish  expressed  that  we 
should  record  our  Recollections  of  pleasant  people  we 
have  known,  leads  us  to  include  oar  personal  experience 
of  publishers — generally  supposed,  by  an  absurd  popular 
fallacy,  to  be  anything  but  "pleasant  people"  to  authors. 
We,  on  the  contrary,  have  found  them  to  be  invariably 
obliging,  considerate,  and  liberal.  Besides,  without  pub- 
lishers where  would  authors  be  ?  Evermore  in  manu- 
script !  worst  of  limbos  to  a  writer ! 

There  is  another  class  of  men  connected  with  authors, 


io8       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS, 

and  themselves  writers,  against  whom  an  unfounded  pre- 
judice has  existed  which  we  are  well  qualified  to  refute. 
We  allude  to  critics ;  generally  supposed  to  be  sour,  acri- 
monious, spiteful,  even — venomous.  Cruelly  are  they 
maligned  by  such  an  imputation;  for  the  most  part  inclined 
to  say  an  encouraging  word,  if  possible  ;  and  rather  given 
to  pat  a  young  author  on  the  head  than  to  quell  him  by 
a  sneer  or  a  knock-down  blow.  At  least  this  is  our  ex- 
perience of  literary  reviewers.  Who  tliat  knew  thee,  dear 
lost  George  James  De  Wilde,  will  accuse  criticism  of  as- 
perity ?  Who  that  saw  thy  bland,  benign  countenance, 
beaming  with  a  look  of  universal  good-will,  as  though  it 
expressed  affectionate  fraternity  of  feeling  toward  all 
human  kind,  could  imagine  thee  other  than  the  gentle  and 
lenient  critic  on  moderately  good  attempts,  and  the  largely, 
keenly  appreciative  critic  on  excellent  productions  that 
thou  really  wert  ?  What  shall  replace  to  us  thy  ever  elegant 
and  eloquent  pen  ?  What  may  console  us  for  the  vacancy 
left  in  our  life  from  missing  thy  hearty  sympatliy  with 
whatever  we  wrote,  or  thy  loving  comment  upon  whatever 
we  published,  making  thy  circle  of  readers  in  the  columns 
of  the  Northampton  Alcrcury  take  interest  in  us  and  our 
writings  from  the  sheer  influence  of  thy  genial,  hearty 
discriminative  notices  ?  Another  kindly  critic  whose  loss 
we  have  to  deplore  is  James  Lomb,  of  Paisley,  warm- 
hearted, generous  in  praise,  unfailing  in  prompt  greeting 
for  everything  we  produced.  These  men  are  lost,  alas  ! 
to  friends  on  earth,  though  not  to  their  ever-grateful 
remembrance. 

Among  those  still  alive,  thank  Heaven,  to  encourage 
in  print  our  endeavours,  and  to  interchange  charities  of 
affectionate  correspondence  with  us,  are  others,  who, 
amid  active  public  and  professional  work,  have  found 


THOS.  PICKERING— THOS.  LATIMER.  109 

time  to  write  admirable  critiques  on  literature  or  music  in 
their  local  journals.  Forgive  us  for  openly  naming  thee 
— Thomas  Pickering/  of  Royston,  one  of  the  earliest  to 
promote  our  lecture  views,  to  cause  us  to  deliver  our 
maiden  lecture  (on  Chaucer)  in  the  Mechanics'  Institute 
of  thy  town  ;  to  receive  us  into  thine  own  house  ;  to  let 
thy  young  daughters  vie  with  each  other  who  should  be 
the  privileged  bearer  of  the  MS.  Lecture-book  to  the 
Lecture  Hall ;  to  incite  re-engagement  )'ear  after  year ; 
to  write  pleasant  notices  of  each  successive  lecture  ;  to 
pen  kindly  reviews  of  every  fresh-written  work  ;  and,  in 
short,  to  combine  friend  and  critic  with  indefatigable  zeal 
and  spirit.  Excellent  listener  to  music  !  Excellent  en- 
joyer  of  all  things  good  and  beautiful  and  tasteful  and 
artistic  !  Ever  full  of  energy  on  behalf  of  those  once 
loved  and  esteemed  by  thee,  whom  we  playfully  dubbed 
Thomas  Pickering,  Esq.,  F.A.  (meaning  "Frightful 
Activity  "),  take  not  amiss  these  our  publicly  expressed 
acknowledgments  of  thy  unceasing  goodness  ;  but  remem- 
ber the  title  by  which  thou  best  lovest  to  call  thyself — 
"  Vincent  Novello's  pupil  in  musical  appreciation  and 
culture" — and  take  the  mention  in  a  tender  spirit  of 
pleasure  for  his  sake. 

We  beg  kindred  indulgence  from  thee,  Thomas  Lati- 
mer, of  Exeter,  whose  delicious  gift  of  dainty  Devonshire 
cream,  sent  by  the  hands  of  her  husband  to  thy  personally 
unknown  "  Concordantia,"  as  thou  styledst  her,  still 
lingers  in  delicate  suavity  of  remembered  taste  on 
the  memory-palate  of  its  recipient ;  together  with  the 
manifold  creamy  and  most  welcome  eulogiums  of  her 
literary  efforts  that  have  flowed  from  thy  iriendly-partial 

»  1878.     Now,  alas  !   dead.     M.  C.  C. 


no        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

pen.  Like  thanks  to  thee,  Isaac  Latimer,  of  Plymouth; 
for  like  critical  and  kindly  services  ;  and  to  thee,  Samuel 
Timmins,  of  Birmingham,  for  a  long  series  of  courtesies, 
thoughtful,  constant,  cordial,  as  various  in  nature  as 
gracefully  rendered.  Lastly,  what  may  we  say  to  thee, 
Alexander  Ireland,  of  Manchester,  warm  friend,  racy 
correspondent  ?  In  Shakespeare's  words,  "  We'll  speak  to 
thee  in  silence ;"  for  we  have  so  lately  had  the  supreme 
pleasure  of  seeing  thee  eye  to  eye,  of  shaking  hands  with 
thee,  of  welcoming  thee  and  thy  "other  self"  in  this 
Italy  of  ours,  that  here  on  paper  we  rnay  well  deny  our- 
selves the  gratification  of  putting  more  down  than  thy 
mere  deeply  loved  name. 

Another  set  of  friends  from  whom  we  have  derived 
large  gratification,  and  to  whom  we  owe  special  thanks, 
are  our  unknown  correspondents  ;  personally  unknown, 
but  whose  persons  are  well  known  to  our  imagination, 
and  whose  hearts  and  minds  are  patent  to  our  knowledge 
in  their  spontaneous  outpourings  by  letter.  Of  one — 
now,  alas,  no  more  !  — we  knew  as  much  through  a  long 
series  of  many-paged  letters,  sent  during  a  period  of 
several  years,  as  we  could  have  done  had  we  met  him  at 
dinner-party  after  dinner-party  for  a  similar  length  of 
time.  He  introduced  himself  by  a  quaint  and  original 
mode  of  procedure,  which  will  be  described  when  we 
come  to  Douglas  Jerrold's  letters  ;  he  took  delight  in 
making  an  idol  and  ideal  of  his  correspondent,  calling  her 
his  "daughter  in  love,"  and  his  "Shakespearian  daugh- 
ter;" and  he  scarcely  let  many  weeks  pass  by  without 
sending  her  a  letter  of  two  sheets  closely  covered  with 
very  small  handwriting  across  the  Atlantic  from  Brooklyn 
to  Bayswater,  Nice,  or  Genoa.  Since  we  lost  him,  his 
dear  widow  follows  his  affectionate  course  of  keeping  up 


HORACE  FURNESS.  iii 

correspondence  with  his  chosen  "  daughter  in  love ;" 
writing  the  most  spirited,  clever  descriptive  letters  of" 
people,  incidents,  and  local  scenes.  Mary  Balmanno '  is 
the  authoress  of  a  pleasant  volume  entitled  "  Pen  and 
Pencil ;"  and  she  wrote  the  "  Pocahontas"  for  M.  C,  C.  in 
her  "World-noted  Women."  She  is  as  skilful  artistically 
as  literarily,  for  she  sent  over  two  beautiful  vrater-colour 
groups  she  painted  of  all  the  Fruits  and  all  the  Flowers 
mentioned  by  Shakespeare,  as  a  gift  to  M.  C.  C,  which 
now  adorn  the  library  where  the  present  recollections  are 
being  written. 

Austin  AUibone,  author  of  that  grand  monument  of 
literary  industry,  the  "  Critical  Dictionary  of  English 
Literature  ;"  Dr.  Charles  Stearns,  author  of  "  The  Shake- 
speare Treasury,"  and  of  "  Shakespeare's  Medical  Know- 
ledge;" the  Rev.  Dr.  Scadding,  author  of  "Shakespeare, 
the  Seer,  the  Interpreter;"  and  the  admirable  Shake- 
spearian couple,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Howard  Furness — • 
he  devoting  himself  to  indefatigable  labours  in  producing 
the  completest  Variorum  Edition  of  the  world's  great 
poet  dramat'st  ever  yet  brought  out ;  and  she  dedicating 
several  years  to  the  compilation  of  a  "  Concordance  to 
Shakespeare's  Poems" — are  all  visible  to  our  mind's  eye, 
in  their  own  individual  personalities,  through  their 
friendly,  delightful,  familiarly-affectionate  letters,  sent 
over  the  wide  waters  of  the  ocean  from  America  to 
England ;  making  us  feel  towards  them  as  intimates,  and 
to  think  of  them  and  ourselves  in  Camillo's  words :  — 
"  They  have  seemed  to  be  together,  though  absent ; 
shook  hands,  as  over  a  vast ;  and  embraced,  as  it  were, 
from  the  ends  of  opposed  winds." 

«  1878.     Nc  w  also  dead.     M.  C.  C. 


112        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Among  our  cherished  unknown  correspondents  of 
loiig  standing  in  kindliness  of  quietly-felt  yet  earnestly- 
shown  regard,  is  John  Watson  Dalby,  author  of  "  Tales, 
Songs,  and  Sonnets  ;"  also  his  accomjolished  son-in-law 
and  daughter,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Townshend  Mayer,  of 
whom  (in  her  childhood)  Leigh  Hunt  spoke  affection- 
ately as  "  mad-cap,"  and  with  whom  (in  her  matronhood) 
Procter  confessed  in  one  of  his  letters  to  us  that  he  had 
fallen  secretly  in  love  when  he  was  eighty  years  of  age. 

Another  pleasant  feature  in  our  unknown  correspon- 
dentship  has  been  the  renewal  in  a  second  generation  of 
friendships  commenced  in  a  first.  Thus  we  have  derived 
double  delight  from  letter  intercourse  with  the  author  of 
"  Poems  from  the  Greek  Mythology;  and  Miscellaneous 
Poems.     By  Edmund  Oilier." 

In  Shakespearian  correspondents — personally  unknown 
yet  familiarly  acquainted  by  means  of  the  "  one  touch  of 
Shakespeare  "  (or  "  Nature  "  almost  synonymous  !)  that 
"  makes  the  whole  world  kin" — we  have  been,  and  still 
are,  most  rich.  Gerald  Massey,  that  true  poet,  and 
author  of  the  interesting  book  "  Shakespeare's  Sonnets 
and  his  Private  Friends ;"  William  Lowes  Rushton, 
who  commenced  a  series  of  several  valuable  pamphlets 
on  Shakespearian  subjects  by  his  excellent  one  "  Shakes- 
peare a  Lawyer ;"  Frederick  Rule,  a  frequent  and 
intelligent  contributor  on  Shakespearian  subjects  to 
Notes  aftd  Queries,  and  Dr.  C.  M.  Ingleby,  whose 
elaborate  and  erudite  Shakespeare  Commentaries  scarcely 
more  interest  us  than  his  graphic  accounts,  in  his  most 
agreeable  letters,  of  his  pleasantly-named  country 
residence,  "Valentines,"  with  its  chief  ornament,  his 
equally-pleasantly-named  daughter,  "  Rose." 

A  delightful  correspondent,  that  we  owed  to  the  loving 


MRS.  JOHN  FA  REAR.  1 1 3 

brotherhood  in  affection  for  Shakespeare  which  makes 
fast  friends  of  people  in  all  parts  of  the  world  and  inspires 
attachments  between  persons  dwelling  at  remotest  dis- 
tance from  each  other,  is  Alexander  Main,  who  formed 
into  a  choice  volume  "The  Wise,  Witty,  and  Tender 
Sayings,  in  Prose  and  Verse,  of  George  Eliot,"  and  pro- 
duced another  entitled  "  The  Life  and  Conversations  of 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  (founded  chiefly  upon  Bos  well)." 
For  a  full  decade  have  we  continued  to  receive  from  him 
frank,  spontaneous,  effusive  letters,  fraught  with  tokens 
of  a  young,  enthusiastic,  earnest  nature,  deeply  imbued 
with  the  glories  of  poetry  and  the  inmost  workings  of 
human  nature  —  more  especially,  as  legibly  evolved  in  the 
pages  of  William  Shakespeare. 

To  the  same  link  of  association  we  are  indebted  for 
another  eminent  correspondent — His  Excellency,  George 
Perkins  Marsh — also  personally  unknown  to  us ;  yet  who 
favours  us,  from  his  elevation  as  a  distinguished  philo- 
logist and  as  a  man  of  high  position,  with  interchange  of 
letters,  and  even  by  entrusting  us  for  more  than  two 
years  with  a  rare  work  of  the  Elizabethan  era  which  we 
wanted  to  consult  during  our  task  of  editing  the  greatest 
writer  of  that  or  any  other  period.  The  above  is  stated 
i  no  vaunting  spirit,  but  in  purest  desire  to  show  how 
happy  such  kind  friendships,  impersonal  but  solidly  firm, 
make  those  who  have  never  beheld  more  than  the  mere 
handwriting  of  their  unknown  (but  well-known)  corre- 
spondents. 

Although  we  left  our  beloved  native  England  in  1856  to 
live  abroad,  we  ceased  not  occasionally  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  persons  whom  it  is  honour  and  delight  to 
know.  While  we  were  living  at  Nice  we  learned  to  know, 
esteem,  and  love  Mrs.  John  Farrar,  of  Springfield,  Massa- 

I 


114       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

chusetts,  authoress  of  a  charming  little  volume  entitled, 
"  The  Young  Lady's  Friend,"  and  "  Recollections  of 
Seventy  Years."  She  passed  one  or  two  winters  at  Nice, 
and  continued  her  correspondence  with  us  after  she 
returned  to  America,  giving  us  animated  descriptions  of 
the  civil  war  there  as  it  progressed.  To  M"s.  Somerville 
we  were  first  introduced  at  Turin ;  she  afterwards  visited 
us  in  Genoa;  and  latterly  interchanged  letters  with  us 
from  Naples.  She  was  as  mild  "and  of  'her'  porte 
as  meek  as  is  a  maid ;"  utterly  free  from  pretension  or 
assumption  of  any  sort ;  she  might  have  been  a  perfect 
ignorama,  for  anything  of  didactic  or  dictatorial  that 
appeared  in  her  mode  of  speerh  :  nay,  'tis  ten  to  one  that 
an  ignoramus  would  have  talked  flippantly  and  pertly  while 
Mary  Somerville  sat  silent ;  or  given  an  opinion  with 
gratuitous  impertinence  and  intrepidity  when  Mrs.  Somer- 
ville could  have  given  hers  with  modesty  and  pertinent 
ability :  for,  mostly,  Mrs.  Somerville  refrained  from  speak- 
ing upon  subjects  that  involved  opinion  or  knowledge,  or 
science;  rather  seeming  to  prefer  the  most  simple,  ordinary, 
every-day  topics.  On  one  occasion  we  were  having  some 
music  when  she  came  to  see  us,  and  she  begged  my 
brother,  Alfred  Novello,  to  continue  the  song  he  was 
singing,  which  chanced  to  be  Samuel  Lover's  pretty 
Irish  ballad,  "  Molly  Bawn."  At  its  conclusion  Mrs. 
Somerville  was  sportively  asked  whether  she  agreed  with 
the  astronomical  theory  propounded  in  the  passage, — 

The  Stars  above  are  brightly  shining, 
Because  they've  nothing  else  to  do. 

And  she  replied,  with  the  Scottish  accent  that  gave 
characteristic  inflection  to  her  utterance,  "  ^Vell — I'm 
not  just  prepared  to  say  they  don't  do  so." 


MRS.    WILLIAM  GREY.  115 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pulszky,  in  passing  through  Genoa  on 
their  way  to  Florence,  were  introduced  to  us,  and  after- 
wards made  welcome  my  youngest  sister,  Sabilla  Novello, 
at  their  house  there,  while  a  concert  and  some  tableaux 
vivants  were  got  up  by  the  Pulszkys  to  buy  off  a  pro- 
mising young  vioHnist  from  conscription  ;  showing — in 
their  own  home  circle  with  their  boys  and  girls  about 
them — what  plain  "  family  people"  and  unaffected  do- 
mestic pair  the  most  celebrated  personages  can  often  be. 

Not  very  long  ago  a  lady  friend  brought  to  our  house 
the  authoress  of  *'  The  Story  of  Elizabeth,"  "  The 
Village  on  the  Cliff,"  "  Old  Kensington,"  and  "  Blue- 
beard's Keys,"  giving  us  fresh  cause  to  feel  how  charm- 
ingly simple-mannered,  quiet,  and  unostentatious  the 
cleverest  persons  usually  are.  While  we  looked  at  Miss 
Thackeray's  soft  eyes,  and  listened  to  her  gentle,  musical 
voice,  we  felt  this  truth  ever  more  and  more  impressed 
upon  us,  and  thanked  her  in  our  heart  for  confirming  us 
in  our  long-held  belief  on  the  point. 

Letters  of  introduction  bringing  us  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing Mrs.  William  Grey,  authoress  of  "  Idols  oi  Society," 
and  numerous  pamphlets  on  the  Education  of  Women, 
with  her  sister  Miss  Shirreff,  editress  of  the  "  Journal 
of  the  Women's  Educational  Union,"  afforded  additional 
evidence  of  this  peculiar  modesty  and  unpretendingness 
in  superiorly-gifted  women;  for  they  are  both  living 
instances  of  this  noteworthy  fact. 

A  welcome  advent  was  that  of  John  Bell,  the  eminent 
sculptor,  who  produced  the  exquisite  statue  of  Shake- 
speare in  the  attitude  of  reflection,  and  several  most 
graceful  tercentenary  tributes  in  relievo  to  the  Poet- 
Dramatist  '  especially  beautiful  the  one  embodying  the 
charming  invention  of  making  the  rays  of  glory  round 

I  2 


ii6       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

the  head  consist  of  the  titles  of  his  immortal  dramas. 
Beyond  John  Bell's  artistic  merit,  he  possesses  peculiar 
interest  for  us  in  having  been  a  fellow-student  with  our 
lost  artist  brother  Edward  Novello,  at  Mr.  Sass's  academy 
for  design  in  early  years. 

Three  enchanting  visits  we  had  from  super-excellent 
lady  pianists :  Barbara  Guschl  (now  Madame  Gleitsmann), 
Clara  Angela  Macirone,  and  Madame  Henrietta  Moritz, 
Hummel's  niece;  all  three  indulging  us  to  our  hearts' 
content  with  the  divine  art  of  music  during  the  whole 
time  of  their  stay. 

A  pleasant  afternoon  was  spent  here  in  receiving 
delightful  Herbert  New,  autlior  of  some  sonnets  on 
Keats,  to  which  we  can  sincerely  give  the  high  praise  of 
saying  they  are  worthy  of  their  subject,  and  also  author 
of  some  charming  little  books  upon  the  picturesque 
English  locality  in  which  he  lives,  the  Vale  of  Evesham. 
To  this  single  day's  knowledge  of  him  and  to  his  fresli, 
graphically-written  letters,  we  owe  many  a  pleasant 
thought. 

The  Rev.  Alexander  Gordon,  too,  brought  us  news 
here  of  our  long-esteemed  friend,  his  father,  the  Rev. 
John  Gordon,  of  Kenil worth ;  both  men  of  real  talent 
and  literary  accomplishment.  Mrs.  Stirling,  of  Edin- 
burgh, renewed  acquaintance  with  us  here  in  a  foreign 
land,  when  she  and  her  husband  visited  Genoa.  Dear 
Alexander  Ireland,  author  of  a  valuable  chronological 
and  critical  Hst  of  Lamb's,  Hazlitt's,  and  Leigh  Hunt's 
writings,  brought  over  the  wife  who  has  made  the  happi- 
ness of  his  latter  years  to  make  our  acquaintance,  and 
give,  by  the  enchanting  talk  pressed  into  a  few  days' 
stay,  endless  matter  for  enlivening  memories.  Honoured 
Uryan  Waller  Procter  wrote  us  a  sprightly   graceful  letter 


RETROSPECT.  117 

as  late  as  186S  ;  the  sprightliness  and  the  grace  touched 
with  tender  earnestness,  as  in  the  course  of  the  letter  he 
makes  allusion  to  Vincent  Novello  and  to  Leigh  Hunt. 
Last,  not  least  among  the  pleasures  of  communion  with 
distinguished  people  that  we  have  enjoyed  since  we  have 
been  domiciled  in  Italy,  v/e  rejoice  in  the  renewal  of 
intercourse  with  James  T.  Fields,  of  Boston ;  to  whom 
we  were  introduced  while  in  England  several  years  ago. 
His  bright,  genial,  vivacious  letters  bring  animation  and 
excitement  to  our  breakfast-table  whenever  they  arrive  : 
for  the  post  is  generally  delivered  during  that  fresh,  cheery 
meal :  the  reports  of  his  spirited  lectures  "  On  Charles 
Lamb,"  "  On  Longfellow,"  "  On  Masters  of  the  Situa- 
tion," and  on  many  attractive  subjects  besides,  come 
with  the  delightful  effect  of  evening-delivered  discourses 
shedding  added  brilliancy  on  the  morning  hour :  while 
his  "yesterdays  with  Authors"  afforded  several  happy 
readings-aloud  by  one  of  us  to  the  other,  as  she 
indulged  in  her  favourite  needle-work.  To  cordial, 
friendliest  Mr.  Fields  we  owe  our  knowledge  of  a  most 
original,  most  poetical,  most  unique  little  volume,  called 
"Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals  ;"  and  likewise  sweet,  ingenu- 
ous, characteristic  letters  from  its  author,  Celia  Thaxter  : 
who  seems  to  us  to  be  a  pearl  among  women- writers. 

In  coming  to  a  close  of  this  portion  of  our  Recol- 
lections of  ^V'r iters  known  to  us,  we  look  back  relieved 
from  the  sense  of  anxiety  that  beset  us  at  its  outset,  when 
we  contemplated  the  almost  bewildering  task  of  selection 
and  arrangement  amid  such  heaps  of  material  as  lay 
stored  in  unsorted  mingledom  within  the  cells  of  our 
brain :  and  now  we  can  take  some  pleasure  in  hoping 
that  it  is  put  into  at  least  readable  form.  To  us,  this 
gallery  of  memory-portraits  is  substantial ;  and  its  figures, 


ii8       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

while  they  presented  themselves  to  our  remembrance  in 
succession,  arose  vivid  and  individual  and  distinct  as  any 
of  those  immortal  portraits  limned  by  Titian,  Vandyck, 
Velasquez,  or  our  own  Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Romney, 
and  Lawrence.  To  have  succeeded  in  giving  even  a 
faint  shadow  of  our  own  clearly-seen  images  will  be 
something  to  reward  us  for  the  pains  it  has  cost  us ;  for 
it  has  been  a  task  at  once  jDainful  and  pleasurable. 
Painful  in  recalling  so  many  dearly  loved  and  daily  seen 
that  can  never  again  be  embraced  or  beheld  on  earth  ; 
pleasurable  in  remembering  so  many  still  spared  to  cheer 
and  bless  our  life.  Sometimes,  when  lying  awake  during 
those  long  night-watches,  stretched  on  a  bed  the  very 
opposite  to  that  described  by  the  wise  old  friar — 

But  where  unbruised  youth,  with  unstuff'd  brain, 
Doth  couch  his  limbs,  there  golden  sleep  doth  reign  ; 

— we,  unable  to  enjoy  that  lulling  vacancy  of  thought, 
are  fain  to  occupy  many  a  sleepless  hour  by  calling  np 
these  mind-portraits,  and  passing  in  review  those  who 
in  themselves  and  in  their  memories  have  been  a  true 
beatitude  to  us.  We  behold  them  in  almost  material 
shape,  and  in  spiritual  vision,  hoping  to  meet  them 
where  we  trust  to  have  fully  solved  those  many  forms  of 
the  "Great  Why  and  Wherefore"  that  have  so  often  and 
so  achingly  perplexed  us  in  this  beautiful  but  imperfect 
state  of  existence. 

Uy  day,  our  eyes  feasting  on  the  magnitude  and  mag- 
nificence of  the  unrivalled  scene  around  us — blue  expanse 
of  sea,  vast  stretch  of  coast  crowned  by  mountain  ranges 
softened  by  olive  woods  and  orange  groves,  with  above 
all  the  cloudless  sky,  sun-lighted  and  sparkling,  we  often 
find   ourselves   ejaculating,  "Ah,  if  Jerrold  could  have 


RESIROSFECT.  119 

seen  this!"  "Ah,  how  Hohiies  would  have  enjoyed 
this!" — and  ardently  wishing  for  those  we  have  known 
to  be  with  us  upon  this  beautiful  Genoese  promontory ; 
making  them  still,  as  well  as  we  can,  companions  in  our 
pleasurable  emotions,  and  feeling,  through  all,  that 
indeed 

A  "  loving  friendship  "  is  a  joy  for  ever. 


120       RECOLLECTIONS  OE   WRITERS. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 

BY    CHARLES    COWDEN    CLARKE. 

In  the  village  of  Enfield,  in  Middlesex,  ten  miles  on  the 
North  road  from  London,  my  father,  John  Clarke,  kept 
a  school.  The  house  had  been  built  by  a  West  India 
merchant  in  the  latter  end  of  the  seventeenth  or  begin- 
ning of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  was  of  the  better 
character  of  the  domestic  architecture  of  that  period,  the 
whole  front  being  of  the  purest  red  brick,  wrought  by 
means  of  moulds  into  rich  designs  of  flowers  and  pome- 
granates, with  heads  of  cherubim  over  niches  in  the 
centre  of  the  building.  The  elegance  of  the  design  and 
the  perfect  finish  of  the  structure  were  such  as  to  secure 
its  protection  when  a  branch  railway  was  brought  from 
the  Ware  and  Cambridge  line  to  Enfield.  The  old 
school-house  was  converted  into  the  station-house,  and 
the  railway  company  had  the  good  taste  to  leave  intact 
one  of  the  few  remaining  specimens  of  the  graceful  Eng- 
lish architecture  of  long-gone  days. 

Here  ic  was  that  John  Keats  all  but  commenced  and 
did  complete  his  school  education.  He  was  born  on  the 
29th  of  October,  1795;  and  he  was  one  of  the  little 
fellows  who  had  not  wholly  emerged  from  the  child's 
costume  upon  being  placed  under  my  father's  care.  It 
will  be  readily  conceived  that  it  is  difficult  to  recall  from 


JOHN  KEATS.  121 

the  "  dark  backward  and  abysm  "  of  seventy  odd  years 
the  general  acts  of  perhaps  the  youngest  individual  in  a 
corporation  of  between  seventy  and  eighty  youngsters  ; 
and  very  little  more  of  Keats's  child-life  can  I  remember 
than  that  he  had  a  brisk,  winning  face,  and  was  a  favour- 
ite with  all,  particularly  my  mother.  His  maternal  grand- 
father, Jennings,  was  proprietor  of  a  large  livery-stable, 
called  the  "  Swan  and  Hoop,"  on  the  pavement  in 
Moorfields,  opposite  the  entrance  into  Finsbury  Circus. 
He  had  two  sons  at  my  father's  school :  the  elder  was 
an  officer  in  Duncan's  ship  off  Gamperdown.  After  the 
battle,  the  Dutch  admiral,  De  Winter,  pointing  to  young 
Jennings,  told  Duncan  that  he  had  fired  several  shots  at 
that  young  man,  and  always  missed  his  mark  ;— no  credit  to 
his  steadiness  of  aim,  for  Jennings,  like  his  ownadmiral,  was 
considerably  above  the  ordinary  dimensions  of  stature. 

Keats's  father  was  the  principal  servant  at  the  Swan  and 
Hoop  stables — a  man  of  so  remarkably  fine  a  common- 
sense,  and  native  respectability,  that  I  perfectly  remember 
the  warm  terms  in  which  his  demeanour  used  to  be  can- 
vassed by  my  parents  after  he  had  been  to  visit  his  boys, 
John  was  the  only  one  resembling  him  in  person  and 
feature,  with  brown  hair  and  dark  hazel  eyes.  The 
father  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  returning 
from  a  visit  to  the  school.  This  detail  may  be  deemed 
requisite  when  we  see  in  the  last  memoir  of  the  poet  the 
statement  that  "  John  Keats  was  born  on  the  29th  of 
October,  1795,  '"  the  upper  rank  of  the  middle  class." 
His  two  brothers — George,  older,  and  Thomas,  younger 
than  himself— were  like  the  mother,  who  was  tall,  of  good 
figure,  with  large,  oval  face,  and  sensible  deportment. 
The  last  of  the  family  was  a  sister— Fanny,  I  think,  much 
younger  than  all,  and  I  hope  still   living— of  whom    I 


122        RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

remember,  when  once  walking  in  the  garden  with  her 
brothers,  my  mother  speaking  of  her  with  much  fondness 
for  hei  pretty  and  simple  manners.  She  married  Mr. 
Llanos,  a  Spanish  refugee,  the  author  of  "  Don  Esteban," 
and  "  Sandoval,  the  Freemason."  He  was  a  man  of 
liberal  principles,  very  attractive  bearing,  and  of  more  than 
ordinary  accomplishments. 

In  the  early  part  of  his  school-life  John  gave  no  extra- 
ordinary indications  of  intellectual  character ;  but  it  was 
remembered  of  him  afterwards,  that  there  was  ever 
present  a  determined  and  steady  spirit  in  all  his  under- 
takings :  I  never  knew  it  misdirected  in  his  required 
pursuit  of  study.  He  was  a  most  orderly  scholar.  The 
future  ramifications  of  that  noble  genius  were  then  closely 
shut  in  the  seed,  which  was  greedily  drinking  in  the 
moisture  which  made  it  afterwards  burst  forth  so  kindly 
into  luxuriance  and  beauty. 

My  father  was  in  the  habit,  at  each  half-year's  vacation 
of  bestowing  prizes  upon  those  pupils  who  had  performed 
the  greatest  quantity  of  voluntary  work ;  and  such  was 
Keats's  indefatigable  energy  for  the  last  two  or  tliree 
successive  half-years  of  his  remaining  at  school,  that,  upon 
each  occasion,  he  took  the  first  prize  by  a  considerable 
distance.  He  was  at  work  before  the  first  school-hour 
began,  and  that  v.'as  at -seven  o'clock  ;  almost  all  the 
intervening  times  of  recreation  were  so  devoted ;  and 
during  the  afternoon  holidays,  when  all  were  at  play,  he 
would  be  in  the  school — almost  the  only  one— at  his 
Latin  or  French  translation  ;  and  so  unconscious  and 
regardless  was  he  of  the  consequences  of  so  close  and 
persevering  an  application,  that  he  never  would  have 
taken  the  necessary  exercise  had  he  not  been  sometimes 
driven  out  for  the  purpose  by  one  of  the  masters. 


JOHN  KEATS.  123 

It  has  just  leen  said  that  he  was  a  favourite  with  all. 
Not  the  less  beloved  was  he  for  having  a  highly  pugna- 
cious spirit,  which,  when  roused,  was  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  exhibitions— off  the  stage  — I  ever  saw.  One 
of  the  transports  of  that  marvellous  actor,  Edmund  Kean 
— whom,  by  the  way,  he  idolized — was  its  nearest  resem- 
blance ;  and  the  two  were  not  very  dissimilar  in  face  and 
figure.  Upon  one  occasion,  when  an  usher,  on  account 
of  some  impertinent  behaviour,  had  boxed  his  brother 
Tom's  ears,  John  rushed  up,  put  himself  in  the  received 
posture  of  offence,  and,  it  was  said,  struck  the  usher — 
who  could,  so  to  say,  have  put  him  into  his  pocket.  His 
passion  at  times  was  almost  ungovernable ;  and  his 
brother  George,  being  considerably  the  taller  and 
stronger,  used  frequently  to  hold  him  down  by  main 
force,  laughing  when  John  was  in  "  one  of  his  moods," 
and  was  endeavouring  to  beat  him.  It  was  all,  however, 
a  wisp-of-stravv  conflagration  ;  for  he  had  an  intensely 
tender  affection  for  his  brothers,  and  proved  it  upon  the 
most  trying  occasions.  He  was  not  merely  the  "  favourite 
of  all,"  like  a  pet  prize-fighter,  for  his  terrier  courage  ;  but 
his  high-mindcdness,  his  utter  unconsciousness  of  a  mean 
motive,  his  placability,  his  generosity,  wrought  so  general 
a  feeling  in  his  behalf,  that  I  never  heard  a  word  of  dis- 
approval from  any  one,  superior  or  equal,  who  had  known 
him. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  time — perhaps  eighteen  months 
— that  he  remained  at  school,  he  occupied  the  hours 
during  meals  in  reading.  Thus,  his  whole  time  was 
engrossed.  He  had  a  tolerably  retentive  memory,  and 
the  quantity  that  he  read  was  surprising.  He  must 
in  those  last  months  have  exhausted  the  school  library, 
which   consisted   principally  of  abridgments  of  all  the 


124       RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

voyages  and  travels  of  any  note  ;  Mayor's  collection,  also 
his  "  Universal  History  ;"  Robertson's  histories  of  Scot- 
land, America,  and  Charles  the  Fifth  ;  all  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  productions,  cogether  with  many  other  works 
equally  well  calculated  for  youth.  The  books,  however, 
that  were  his  constantly  recurrent  sources  of  attraction 
were  Tooke's  "  Pantheon,"  Lempriere's  "  Classical  Dic- 
tionary," which  he  appeared  to  learn,  and  Spence's 
"  Polymetis."  This  was  the  store  whence  he  acquired 
his  intimacy  with  the  Greek  mythology ;  here  was  he 
"  suckled  in  that  creed  outworn ;"  for  his  amount  of 
classical  attainment  extended  no  farther  than  the 
"  ^neid ;"  with  which  epic,  indeed,  he  was  so  fascinated 
that  before  leaving  school  he  had  voluntarily  translated 
in  writing  a  considerable  portion.  And  yet  I  remember 
that  at  that  early  age — mayhap  under  fourteen  -  notwith- 
standing, and  through  all  its  incidental  attractiveness,  he 
hazarded  the  opinion  to  me  (and  the  expression  riveted 
my  surprise),  that  there  was  feebleness  in  the  structure  of 
the  work.  He  must  have  gone  through  all  the  better 
publications  in  the  school  library,  for  he  asked  me  to  lend 
him  some  of  my  own  books  ;  and,  in  my  "mind's  eye,"  I 
now  see  him  at  supper  (we  had  our  meals  in  the  school- 
room), sitting  back  on  the  form,  from  the  table,  holding 
the  folio  volume  of  Burnet's  "  History  of  his  Own  Time  " 
between  himself  and  the  table,  eating  his  meal  from 
beyond  it.  This  work,  and  Leigh  Hunt's  Examiner — 
which  my  father  took  in,  and  I  used  to  lend  to  Keats — 
no  doubt  laid  the  foundation  of  his  love  of  civil  and 
religious  liberty.  He  once  told  me,  smiling,  that  one  of 
his  guardians,  being  informed  what  books  I  had  lent  him 
to  read,  declared  that  if  he  had  fifty  children  he  would  not 
send  one  of  them  to  that  school.    Bless  his  patriot  head  ! 


JOHN  KEATS.  125 

When  he  left  Enfield,  at  fourteen  years  of  age,  he  was 
apprenticed  to  ]\Ir.  Thomas  Hammond,  a  medical  man, 
residing  in  Church  Street,  Edmonton,  and  exactly  two 
miles  from  Enfield.  This  arrangement  evidently  gave 
him  satisfaction,  and  I  fear  that  it  was  the  most  placid 
period  of  his  painful  life ;  for  now,  with  the  exception  of 
the  duty  he  had  to  perform  in  the  surgery — by  no  means 
an  onerous  one—  his  whole  leisure  hours  were  employed 
in  mdalging  his  passion  for  reading  and  translating. 
During  his  apprenticeship  he  finished  the  "  yEneid." 

The  distance  between  our  residences  being  so  short,  1 
gladly  encouraged  his  inclination  to  come  over  when  he 
could  claim  a  leisure  hour  ;  and  in  consequence  I  saw 
him  about  five  or  six  times  a  month  on  my  own  leisure 
afternoons.  He  rarely  came  empty-handed  ;  either  he 
had  a  book  to  read,  or  brought  one  to  be  exchanged. 
When  the  weather  permitted,  we  always  sat  in  an  arbour 
at  the  end  of  a  spacious  garden,  and — in  Bosvvellian 
dialect — "  we  had  good  talk." 

It  were  difficult,  at  this  lapse  of  time,  to  note  the  spark 
that  fired  the  train  of  his  poetical  tendencies  ;  but  he  must 
have  given  unmistakable  tokens  of  his  mental  bent ; 
otherwise,  at  that  early  stage  of  his  career,  I  never  could 
have  read  to  him  the  "  Epithalamion  '"  of  Spenser  ;  and 
this  I  remember  having  done,  and  in  that  hallowed  old 
arbour,  the  scene  of  many  bland  and  graceful  associations 
— the  substances  having  passed  away.  At  that  time  he 
may  have  been  sixteen  years  old  ;  and  at  that  period  of 
life  he  certainly  appreciated  the  general  beauty  of  the 
composition,  and  felt  the  more  passionate  passages; 
for  his  features  and  exclamations  were  ecstatic.  How 
often,  in  after-times,  have  I  heard  him  quote  these 
lines : — 


126       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Behold,  while  she  before  the  altar  stands, 

Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 

And  blesses  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 

How  the  red  roses  flush  up  to  her  cheeks  ! 

And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermeil  stain, 

Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain, 

That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 

About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 

P'orget  their  service,  and  about  her  fly, 

Oft  pecphig  in  her  face,  that  seems  inore  fair^ 

The  7!iore  they  on  it  stare; 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fasten'd  on  the  ground, 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty. 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 

That  night  he  took  away  with  him  the  first  volume  of 
the  "  Faerie  Queene,"  and  he  went  through  it,  as  I 
formerly  told  his  noble  biographer,  "  as  a  young  horse 
would  through  a  spring  me.idow — ramping  ! "  Like  a 
true  poet,  too — a  poet  "  born,  not  manufactured,"  a  poet 
in  grain,  he  especially  singled  out  epithets,  for  that  felicity 
and  power  in  which  Spenser  is  so  eminent.  He  hoisted 
himself  up,  and  looked  burly  and  dominant,  as  he  said, 
"what  an  image  that  is — ' sea-shojildering  whales/'"  It 
was  a  treat  to  see  as  well  as  hear  him  read  a  pathetic 
passage.  Once,  when  reading  the  "  Cymbeline  "  aloud, 
I  saw  his  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  his  voice  faltered  when 
he  came  to  the  departure  of  Posthumus,  and  Imogen 
saying  she  would  have  watched  him — 

'Till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle  ; 
Nay  follow'd  him  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air  ;  and  then 
Have  turn'd  mine  eye  and  wept. 


JOHN  KEATS.  127 

I  cannot  remember  the  precise  time  of  our  separating  at 
this  stage  of  Keats's  career,  or  which  of  us  first  went  to 
London;  but  it  wasupon  an  occasion,  when  walking  thither 
to  see  Leigh  Hunt,  who  had  just  fulfilled  his  penalty  of 
confinement  in  Horsemonger  Lane  Prison  for  the  unwise 
libel  upon  the  Prince  Regent,  that  Keats  met  me  ;  and, 
turning,  accompanied  me  back  part  of  the  way.  At  the 
last  field-gate,  when  taking  leave,  he  gave  me  the  sonnet 
entitled,  "  Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left 
Prison/'  This  I  feel  to  be  the  first  proof  I  had  received 
of  his  having  committed  himself  in  verse ;  and  how 
clearly  do  I  recall  the  conscious  look  and  hesitation 
with  which  he  offered  it !  There  are  some  momentary 
glances  by  beloved  friends  that  fade  only  with  life. 
His  biographer  has  stated  that  "  The  Lines  in  Imitation 
of  Spenser  " — 

Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came. 
And  her  first  footsteps  touch'd  a  verdant  hill,  &c., 

are  the  earliest  known  verses  of  his  composition ;  a 
probable  circumstance,  from  their  subject  being  the 
inspiration  of  his  first  love,  in  poetry — and  such  a  love  ! 
— but  Keats's  ^I'sX  published  ^otxti  was  the  sonnet — 

O  Solitude  !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell, 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings  ;  climb  with  me  the  steep- 
Nature's  observatory — whence  the  dell, 
In  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell 
May  seem  a  span ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavilion'd,  where  the  deer's  swift  leap 
Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  foxglove  bell. 

But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee, 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind. 
Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refined, 


128       RECOLLECTIONS  OL   WELTERS. 

Is  my  soul's  pleasure  ;  and  it  sure  must  be 
Almost  the  highest  bliss  oi  human  kind, 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 

This  sonnet   appeared  in   the  Examiner,  some   time, 
I  think,  in  1816. 

When  we  both  had  come  to  London— Keats  to  enter 
as  a  student  of  St.  Thomas's  Hospital — he  was  not  long 
in  discovering  my  abode,  which  was  with  a  brother-in- 
law  in  Clerkenwell ;  and  at  that  time  being  housekeeper, 
and  sohtary,  he  would  come  and  renew  his  loved  gossip ; 
till,  as  the  author  of  the  "  Urn  Burial  "  says,  "  we  were 
acting  our  antipodes — the  huntsmen  were  up  in  America, 
and  they  already  were  past  their  first  sleep  in  Persia." 
At  the  close  of  a  letter  which  preceded  my  appointing 
him  to  come  and  lighten  my  darkness  in  Clerkenwell,  is 
his  first  address  upon  coming  to  London.  He  says, — • 
"  Although  the  Borough  is  a  beastly  place  in  dirt, 
turnings,  and  windings,  yet  No.  8,  Dean  Street,  is  not 
difficult  to  find  ;  and  if  you  would  run  the  gauntlet  over 
London  Bridge,  take  the  first  turning  to  the  right,  and, 
moreover,  knock  at  my  door,  which  is  nearly  opposite  a 
meeting,  you  would  do  me  a  charity,  which,  as  St.  Paul 
saith,  is  the  father  of  all  the  virtues.  At  all  events,  let 
me  hear  from  you  soon  :  I  say,  at  all  events,  not  except- 
ing the  gout  in  your  fingers."  This  letter,  having  no 
date  but  the  week's  day,  and  no  postmark,  preceded  our 
first  symposium ;  and  a  memorable  night  it  was  in  my 
life's  career. 

A  beautiful  copy  of  the  folio  edition  of  Chapman's 
translation  of  Homer  had  been  lent  me.  It  was  the 
property  of  Mr.  Alsager,  the  gentleman  who  for  years  had 
contributed  no  small  share  of  celebrity  to  the  great 
reputation   of  the    Times    newspaper   by   the   masterly 


JOHN  KEATS.  129 

manner  in  which  he  conducted  the  money-market  de- 
partment of  that  journal.  Upon  my  first  introduction  to 
Air.  Alsager  he  Uved  opposite  to  Horsemonger  Lane 
Prison,  and  upon  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  being  sentenced  for 
the  hbel,  his  first  day's  dinner  was  sent  over  by  Mr.  Aisager. 
Well,  then,  we  were  put  in  possession  of  the  Homer  of 
Chapman,  and  to  work  we  went,  turning  to  some  of  the 
"  famousest  "  passages,  as  we  had  scrappily  known  them 
in  Pope's  version.  There  was,  for  instance,  that  perfect 
scene  of  the  conversation  on  Troy  wall  of  the  old 
Senators  with  Helen,  who  is  pointing  out  to  them  the 
several  Greek  Captains  \  with  the  Senator  Antenor's 
vivid  portrait  of  an  orator  in  Ulysses,  beginning  at  the 
237th  line  of  the  third  book  : — 

But  when  the  prudent  Ithacus  did  to  his  counsels  rise, 
He  stood  a  little  still,  and  fix'd  upon  the  earth  his  eyes, 
His  sceptre  moving  neither  way,  but  held  it  formally. 
Like  one  that  vainly  doth  affect.     Of  wrathful  quality, 
And  frantic  (rashly  judging),  you  would  have  said  he  was  ; 
But  when  out  of  his  ample  breast  he  gave  his  great  voice 

pass, 
And  words  that  flew  about  our  ears  like  drifts  of  wintei-*s 

snow. 
None  thenceforth  might  contend  with  him,  though  naught 

admired  for  show. 

The  shield  and  helmet  of  Diomed,  with  the  accom- 
panying simile,  in  the  opening  of  the  third  book  ;  and 
the  prodigious  description  of  Neptune's  passage  to  the 
Achive  ships,  in  the  thirteenth  book  : — 

The  woods  and  all  the  great  hills  near  trembled  beneath  the 

weight 
Of  his  immortal-moving  feet.     Three  steps  he  only  took. 
Before  he  far-off  yEgas  reach'd,  but  with  the  fourth,  it  shook 
With  his  dread  entry. 

K 


I30       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

One  scene  I  couM  not  fail  to  introduce  to  him — the 
shipwreck  of  Ulysses,  in  the  fifth  book  of  the  "  Odysseis," 
and  I  had  the  reward  of  one  of  his  delighted  stares,  upon 
reading  the  following  lines  : — 

Then  forth  he  came,  his  both  knees  falt'ring,  both 
His  strong  hands  hanging  down,  and  all  with  froth 
His  cheeks  and  nostrils  flowing,  voice  and  breath 
Spent  to  all  use,  and  down  he  sank  to  death. 
The  sea  had  soa¥d  his  heart  th7^0Hgh;  all  liis  veins 
His  toils  had  rack'd  t'  a  labouring  woman's  pains. 
Dead-weary  was  he. 

On  an  after-occasion  I  showed  him  the  couplet,  in 
Pope's  translation,  upon  the  same  passage  : — 

From  mouth  and  nose  the  briny  torrent  ran, 
And  lost  in  lassitude  lay  all  the  man.  [!! !] 

Chapman  ^  supplied  us  with  many  an  after-treat ;  but 
it  was  in  the  teeming  wonderment  of  this  his  first  intro- 
duction, that,  when  I  came  down  to  breakfast  the  next 
morning,  I  found  upon  my  table  a  letter  with  no  other 
enclosure  than  his  famous  sonnet,  "  On  First  Looking 
into  Chapman's  Homer."  We  had  parted,  as  I  have 
already  said,  at  day-spring,  yet  he  contrived  that  I  should 
receive  the  poem  from  a  distance  of,  may  be,  two  miles 
by  ten  o'clock.  In  the  published  copy  of  this  sonnet  he 
made  an  alteration  in  the  seventh  line  : — 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene. 

The  original  which  he  sent  me  had  the  phrase — 

Yet  could  I  never  tell  what  men  could  mean  ; 

which  he  said  was  bald,  and  too  simply  wondering.     No 

'  With  what  joy  would  Keats  have  welcomed  Mr.  Richard 
Hooper's  admirable  edition  of  our  old  version  ! 


JOHN  KEATS.  131 

one  could  more  earnestly  chastise  his  thoughts  than 
Keats.  His  favourite  among  Chapman's  "  Hymns  of 
Homer  "  was  the  one  to  Pan,  which  he  himself  rivalled 
in  the  "  Endymion  :" — 

O  thou  whose  mighty  palace-roof  doth  hang,  &c. 

It  appears  early  in  the  first  book  of  the  poem  ;  the  first 
line  in  which  has  passed  into  a  proverb,  and  become  a 
motto  to  Exhibition  catalogues  of  Fine  Art : — 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever  : 
Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness  ;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  &c. 

The  "  Hymn  to  Pan"  alone  should  have  rescued  this 
young  and  vigorous  poem— this  youngest  epic — from  the 
savage  injustice  with  which  it  was  assailed. 

In  one  of  our  conversations,  about  this  period,  I 
alluded  to  his  position  at  St.  Thomas's  Hospital,  coasting 
and  reconnoitring,  as  it  were,  for  the  purpose  of  discover- 
ing what  progress  he  was  making  in  his  profession  ;  which 
I  had  taken  for  granted  had  been  his  own  selection,  and 
not  one  chosen  for  him.  The  total  absorption,  therefore, 
of  every  other  mood  of  his  mind  than  that  of  imaginative 
composition,  which  had  now  evidently  encompassed  him, 
induced  me,  from  a  kind  motive,  to  inquire  what  was  his 
bias  of  action  for  the  future ;  and  with  that  transparent 
candour  which  ibrmed  the  mainspring  of  his  rule  of 
conduct,  he  at  once  made  no  secret  of  his  inability  to 
sympathize  with  the  science  of  anatomy,  as  a  main  pur- 
suit in  life  ;  for  one  of  the  expressions  that  he  used,  in 
describing  his  unfitness  for  its  mastery,  was  perfectly 
characteristic.     He  said,  in  illustration  of  his  argument, 

K  2 


132       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

*'  The  other  day,  for  instance,  during  the  lecture,  there 
came  a  sunbeam  into  the  room,  and  with  it  a  whole  troop 
of  creatures  floating  in  the  ray;  and  I  was  off  with  them 
to  Oberon  and  fairyland."  And  yet,  with  all  his  self- 
styled  unfitness  for  the  pursuit,  I  was  afterwards  informed 
that  at  his  subsequent  examination  he  displayed  an 
amount  of  acquirement  which  surprised  his  fellow-students, 
who  had  scarcely  any  other  association  with  him  than 
that  of  a  cheerful,  crotchety  rhymester.  He  once  talked 
with  me,  upon  my  complaining  of  stomachic  derange- 
ment, with  a  remarkable  decision  of  opinion,  describing 
the  functions  and  actions  of  the  organ  with  the  clearness 
and,  as  I  presume,  technical  precision  of  an  adult  prac- 
titioner ;  casually  illustrating  the  comment,  in  his  charac- 
teristic way,  with  poetical  imagery  :  the  stomach,  he  said, 
being  like  a  brood  of  callow  nestlings  (opening  his  capa- 
cious mouth)  yearning  and  gaping  for  sustenance ;  and, 
indeed,  he  merely  exemplified  what  should  be,  if  possible, 
the  "  stock  in  trade  "  of  every  poet,  viz  ,  to  knotu  all  that 
is  to  be  known,  "  in  the  heaven  above,  or  in  the  earth 
beneath,  or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth." 

It  was  about  this  period  that,  going  to  call  upon  Mr. 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  then  occupied  a  pretty  little  cottage  in 
the  Vale  of  Health,  on  Hampstead  Heath,  I  took  with  me 
two  or  three  of  the  poems  I  had  received  from  Keats.  I 
could  not  but  anticipate  that  Hunt  would  speak  en- 
couragingly, and  indeed  approvingly,  of  the  compositions 
— written,  too,  by  a  youth  under  age ;  but  my  partial 
spirit  was  not  prepared  for  the  unhesitating  and  prompt 
admiration  which  broke  forth  before  he  had  read  twenty 
lines  of  the  first  poem.  Horace  Smith  happened  to  be 
there  on  the  occasion,  and  he  was  not  less  demonstrative 
n  his  appreciation  of  their  merits.     The  piece  which  he 


JOHN  KEATS.  133 

read  out  was  the  sonnet,  "  How  many  Bards  gild  the 
Lapses  of  Time  !  "  marking  with  particular  emphasis  and 
approval  the  last  six  lines  : — 

So  the  unnumber'd-sounds  that  evening  store, 
The  songs  of  birds,  the  whisp'ring  of  the  leaves, 
The  voice  of  waters,  the  great  bell  that  heaves 

With  solemn  sound,  and  thousand  others  more, 
That  distance  of  recognizance  b:reavcs, 

Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  uproar. 

Smith  repeated  with  applause  the  line  in  italics,  saying, 
"  What  a  well-condensed  expression  for  a  youth  so 
young !  "  After  making  numerous  and  eager  inquiries 
about  him  personally,  and  with  reference  to  any  pecu- 
liarities of  mind  and  manner,  the  visit  ended  in  my 
being  requested  to  bring  him  over  to  the  Vale  of  Health. 

That  was  a  *'  red-letter  day  "  in  the  young  poet's  life, 
and  one  which  will  never  fade  with  me  while  memory 
lasts. 

The  character  and  expression  of  Keats's  features  would 
arrest  even  the  casual  passenger  in  the  street  ;  and  now 
they  were  wrought  to  a  tone  of  animation  that  I  could 
not  but  watch  with  interest,  knowing  what  was  in  store 
for  him  from  the  bland  encouragement,  and  Spartan 
deference  in  attention,  with  fascinating  conversational 
eloquence,  that  he  was  to  encounter  and  receive.  As  we 
approached  the  Heath,  there  was  the  rising  and  accele- 
rated step,  with  the  gradual  subsidence  of  all  talk.  The 
interview,  which  stretched  into  three  "  morning  calls," 
was  the  prelude  to  many  after-scenes  and  saunterings 
about  Caen  Wood  and  its  neighbourhood  ;  for  Keats  was 
suddenly  made  a  familiar  of  the  household,  and  was 
always  welcomed. 

It   was   in  the  library  at   Hunt's  cottage,   where  an 


134       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

extemporary  bed  had  been  made  up  for  him  on  the  sofa, 
that  he  composed  the  frame-work  and  many  hnes  of  the 
poem  on  "  Sleep  and  Poetry  " — the  last  sixty  or  seventy 
being  an  inventory  of  the  art  garniture  of  the  room,  com- 
mencing,— 

It  was  a  poet's  house  who  keeps  the  keys 
Of  Pleasure's  temple.         *        *        * 

In  this  composition  is  the  lovely  and  favourite  little 
cluster  of  images  upon  the  fleeting  transit  of  life — a 
pathetic  anticipation  of  his  own  brief  career  : — 

Stop  and  consider !     Life  is  but  a  day  ; 
A  fragile  dew-drop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 
Of  Montmorenci.     Why  so  sad  a  moan  ? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown ; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale  ; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil  ; 
A  pigeon  tumbling  in  the  summer  air  ; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 

Very  shortly  after  his  installation  at  the  cottage,  and  on 
the  day  after  one  of  our  visits,  he  gave  in  the  following 
sonnet,  a  characteristic  appreciation  of  the  spirit  in 
which  he  had  been  received  : — 

Keen  fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here  and  there 
Among  the  bushes  half  leafless  and  dry  ; 
The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare ; 
Yet  I  feel  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air. 
Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily, 
Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on  high, 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  pleasant  lair : 
For  1  am  brimful  of  the  friendliness 


JOHN  KEATS.  135 

That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found  j 
Of  fair-hair'd  Milton's  eloquent  distress, 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid'  drown'd; 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light  green  dress, 

And  faithful  Petrarch  gloriously  crown'd. 

The  glowing  sonnet  upon  being  compelled  to  "  Leave 
Friends  at  an  Early  Hour  " — 

Give  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean,  &c., 

followed  shortly  after  the  former.  But  the  occasion  that  re- 
curs with  the  liveliest  interest  was  one  evening  when  — some 
observations  having  been  made  upon  the  character,  habits, 
and  pleasant  associations  with  that  reverend  denizen  of 
the  hearth,  the  cheerful  little  grasshopper  of  the  fireside — 
Hunt  proposed  to  Keats  the  challenge  of  writing  then, 
there,  and  to  time,  a  sonnet  "  On  the  Grasshopper  and 
Cricket."  No  one  was  present  but  myself,  and  they 
accordingly  set  to.  I,  apart,  with  a  book  at  the  end  of 
the  sofa,  could  not  avoid  furtive  glances  every  now  and 
then  at  the  emulants.  I  cannot  say  how  long  the  trial 
lasted.  I  was  not  proposed  umpire ;  and  had  no  stop- 
watch for  the  occasion.  The  time,  however,  was  short 
for  such  a  performance,  and  Keats  won  as  to  time.  But 
the  event  of  the  after-scrutiny  was  one  of  many  such 
occurrences  which  have  riveted  the  memory  of  Leigh 
Hunt  in  my  affectionate  regard  and  admiration  for  un- 
affected generosity  and  perfectly  unpretentious  encourage- 
ment.    His  sincere  look  of  pleasure  at  the  first  line — 

The  poetr}'  of  earth  is  never  dead. 

"  Such  a  prosperous  opening  ! "  he  said ;  and  when  hf 
came  to  the  tenth  and  eleventh  lines  : — 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  ivhen  the  frost 
Has  wroughi  a  silence — 


136       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

"  Ah  !  that's  perfect !  Bravo  Keats  ! "  And  then  he 
went  on  in  a  dilatation  upon  the  dumbness  of  Nature 
during  the  season's  suspension  and  torpidity.  With  all 
the  kind  and  gratifying  things  that  were  said  to  him,  Keats 
protested  to  me,  as  we  were  afterwards  walking  home, 
that  he  preferred  Hunt's  treatment  of  the  subject  to  his 
own.  As  neighbour  Dogberry  would  have  rejoined, 
"  'Fore  God,  they  are  both  in  a  tale  !  "  It  has  occurred 
to  me,  upon  so  remarkable  an  occasion  as  the  one  here 
recorded,  that  a  reunion  of  the  two  sonnets  will  be  gladly 
hailed  by  the  reader. 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead ; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's, — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
W^ith  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never  ; 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence ;  from  the  stove  there  thrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  Grasshoppei'^s  among  some  grassy  hills. 

Dec.  30,  1816.  John  Keats. 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 

W^hen  ev'n  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 


JOHN  KEATS.  137 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass  : 
Oh  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 
Both  have  your  sunshine ;  both  though  small  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts ;  and  both  were  sent  on  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song, — 

In  doors  and  out,  Summer  and  Winter,  Mirth  ! 

Dec.  30,  1 816.  Leigh  Hunt. 

Keats  had  left  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Borough,  and 
was  now  living  with  his  brothers  in  apartments  on  the 
second  floor  of  a  house  in  the  Poultry,  over  the  passage 
leading  to  the  Queen's  Head  Tavern,  and  opposite  to  one 
of  the  City  Companies'  halls — -the  Ironmongers',  if  I 
mistake  not.  I  have  the  associating  rv-^miniscence  of 
many  happy  hours  spent  in  this  abode.  Here  was  deter- 
mined upon,  in  great  part  written,  and  sent  forth  to  the 
world,   the   first  little,   but    vigorous,    offspring   of  his 

brain : — 

POEMS 

By 
John  Keats. 

"  What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  wiih  liberty  !  " 

Fate  of  the  Btitterjly  :  Spenser. 

London  : 

Printed  for  C.  and  J.  Oilier, 

3,  Welbeck  Street,  Cavendish  Square. 

1817. 

And  here,  on  the  evening  when  the  last  proof-sheet  was 
brought  from  the  printer,  it  was  accompanied  by  the 
information  that  if  a  "  dedication  to  the  book  was  in- 
tended it  must  be  sent  forthwith,"     Whereupon  he  with- 


138       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

drew  to  a  side-table,  and  in  the  buzz  of  a  mixed  conver- 
sation (for  there  were  several  friends  in  the  room)  he 
composed  and  brought  to  Charles  Oilier,  the  publisher, 
the  Dedication  Sonnet  to  Leigh  Hunt.  If  the  original 
manuscript  of  that  poem— a  legitimate  sonnet,  with  every 
restriction  of  rhyme  and  metre  — could  now  be  produced, 
and  the  time  recorded  in  which  it  was  written,  it  would 
be  pronounced  an  extraordinary  performance  :  added  to 
which  the  non-alteration  of  a  single  word  in  the  poem  (a 
circumstance  that  was  noted  at  the  time)  claims  for  it  a 
merit  with  a  very  rare  parallel.  The  remark  may  be  here 
subjoined  that,  had  the  composition  been  previously  pre- 
pared for  the  occasion,  the  mere  writing  it  out  would 
have  occupied  fourteen  minutes ;  and  lastly,  when  I  refer 
to  the  time  occupied  in  composing  the  sonnet  on  "  The 
Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,"  I  can  have  no  hesitation  in 
believing  the  one  in  question  to  have  been  extempore. 

"  The  poem  which  commences  the  volume,"  says  Lord 
Houghton  in  his  first  memoir  of  the  poet,  "  was  suggested 
to  Keats  by  a  delightful  summer's  day,  as  he  stood  beside 
the  gate  that  leads  from  the  battery  on  Hampstead 
Heath  into  a  field  by  Caen  Wood ;"  and  the  following 
lovely  passage  he  himself  told  me  was  the  recollection  of 
our  having  frequently  loitered  over  the  rail  of  a  foot- 
bridge that  spanned  (probably  still  spans,  notwithstanding 
the  intrusive  and  shouldering  railroad)  a  little  brook  in 
the  last  field  upon  entering  Edmonton  : — 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings; 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's  cooings. 
How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend  ! 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  docs  it  send 


JOHN  KEATS.  139 

To  the  o'er-hanging  sallows  ;  blades  of  grass 
Slowly  across  the  chequer'd  shadows  pass. 
Why,  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 
To  where  the  hurr>'ing  freshnesses  aye  preach 
-A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds  ; 
Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads, 
Staying  their  luavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 
To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 
Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  -wrestle 
Wiih  their  own  delight,  and  ever  nestle 
Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand! 
If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand. 
That  very  instant  not  one  will  reinain; 
But  turn  your  eye  and  they  are  there  again. 

He  himself  thought  the  picture  correct,  and   acknow- 
ledged to  a  partiality  for  it. 

Another  example  of  his  promptly  suggestive  imagina- 
tion, and  uncommon  facility  in  giving  it  utterance, 
occurred  one  day  upon  returning  home  and  finding  me 
asleep  on  the  sofa,  with  a  volume  of  Chaucer  open  at  the 
"  Flower  and  the  Leaf."  After  expressing  to  me  his  admira- 
tion of  the  poem,  which  he  had  been  reading,  he  gave 
me  the  fine  testimony  of  that  opinion  in  pointing  to  the 
sonnet  he  had  written  at  the  close  of  it,  which  was  an 
extempore  effusion,  and  without  the  alteration  of  a  single 
word.  It  lies  before  me  now,  signed  "J.  K.,  Feb.,  181 7. 
If  my  memory  do  not  betray  me,  this  charming  out-door 
fancy  scene  was  Keats's  first  introduction  to  Chaucer. 
The  "  Troilus  and  Cresseide"  was  certainly  an  after  ac- 
quaintance with  him ;  and  clearly  do  I  recall  his  appro- 
bation of  the  favourite  passages  that  had  been  marked  in 
my  own  copy.  Upon  being  requested,  he  retraced  the 
poem,  and  with  his  pen  confirmed  and  denoted  those 
which  were  congenial  with  his  own  feeling  and  judgment. 


140       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

These  two  circumstances,  associated  with  the  literary 
career  of  this  cherished  object  of  his  friend's  esteem  and 
love,  have  stamped  a  priceless  value  upon  that  friend's 
miniature  i8mo.  copy  of  Chaucer. 

The  first  volume  of  Keats's  minor  muse  was  launched 
amid  the  cheers  and  fond  anticipations  of  all  his  circle. 
Every  one  of  us  expected  (and  not  unreasonably)  that  it 
would  create  a  sensation  in  the  literary  world  ;  for  such  a 
first  production  (and  a  considerable  portion  of  it  from  a 
minor)  has  rarely  occurred.     The  three  Episdes  and  the 
seventeen  sonnets  (that  upon  "  first  looking  into  Chap- 
man's  Homer"   one   of  them)    would   have   ensured   a 
rousing     welcome     from     our    modern-day     reviewers. 
Alas !    the    book   might    have    emerged   in   Timbuctoo 
with  far  stronger  chance  of  fame  and  approbation.     It 
never  passed  to  a  second  edition;  the  first  was  but  a 
small  one,  and  that   was   never   sold  off.     The   whole 
community,    as   if  by  compact,   seemed  determined  to 
know  nothing  about  it.     The    word  had   been   passed 
that  its  author  was  a  Radical;    and  in  those  days  of 
"  Bible-Crown-and-Constitution"   supremacy,    he    might 
have  had  better  chance  of  success  had  he  been  an  Anti- 
Jacobin.     Keats  had  not  made  the  slightest  demonstra- 
tion of  political  opinion  ;  but  with  a  conscious  feeling  of 
gratitude  for  kindly  encouragement,  he  had  dedicated  his 
book  to  Leigh  Hunt,  Editor  of  the  Examiner,  a  Radical 
and  a  dubbed  partisan  of  the  first  Napoleon  ;  because 
when  alluding  to  him,  Hunt  did  not  always  subjoin  the 
fashionable   cognomen   of   "  Corsican  Monster."     Such 
an  association  was  motive  enough  with  the  dictators  of 
that  day  to  thwart  the  endeavours  of  a  young  aspirant 
who  should  presume  to  assert  for  himself  an  unrestricted 
course  of  opinion.     Verily,  "  the  former  times  were  not 


JOHN  KEATS.  141 

better  tnan  these."  Men  may  now  utter  a  word  in  favour 
of  "  civil  liberty"  without  being  chalked  on  the  back  and 
hounded  out. 

Poor  Keats  !  he  little  anticipated,  and  as  little  merited, 
the  cowardly  treatment  that  was  in  store  for  him  upon 
the  publishing  of  his  second  composition — the  "  Endy- 
mion."  It  was  in  the  interval  of  the  two  productions 
that  he  had  moved  from  the  Poultry,  and  had  taken  a 
lodging  in  Well  Walk,  Hampstead — in  the  first  or  second 
house  on  the  right  hand,  going  up  to  the  Heath.  I  have 
an  impression  that  he  had  been  some  weeks  absent  at  the 
seaside  before  settling  in  this  district ;  for  the  "  Endy- 
mion  "  had  been  begun,  and  he  had  made  considerable 
advances  in  his  plan.  He  came  to  me  one  Sunday,  and 
we  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day  walking  in  the 
neighbourhood.  His  constant  and  enviable  friend, 
Severn,  I  remember,  was  present  upon  the  occasion,  by 
a  little  circumstance  of  our  exchanging  looks  upon  Keats 
reading  to  us  portions  of  his  new  poem  with  which  he 
himself  had  been  pleased ;  and  never  will  his  expression 
of  face  depart  from  me  ;  if  I  were  a  Reynolds  or  a 
Gainsborough  I  could  now  stamp  it  for  ever.  One  of 
his  selections  was  the  now  celebrated  "  Hymn  to  Pan  " 
in  the  first  book  : — 

O  thou  whose  mighty  palace-roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  roofs  ; 

which  alone  ought  to  have  preserved  the  poem  from  un- 
kindness ;  and  which  would  have  received  an  awarding 
smile  from  the  "  deep-brow'd  "  himself.  And  the  other 
selections  were  the  descriptions  in  the  second  book  of 
the  "  bower  of  Adonis,"  and  the  ascent  and  descent  of 
the  silver  car  of  Venus,  air-borne  : — 


142       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  morn, 
Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew. 

Keats  was  indebted  for  his  introduction  to  Mr.  Severn 
to  his  schoolfellow  Edward  Holmes,  who  also  had  been 
one  of  the  child  scholars  at  Enfield;  for  he  came  there 
in  the  frock-dress. 

Holmes  ought  to  have  been  an  educated  musician 
from  his  first  childhood,  for  the  passion  was  in  him.  I 
used  to  amuse  myself  widi  the  pianoforte  after  supper, 
when  all  had  gone  to  bed.  Upon  some  sudden  occasion, 
leaving  the  parlour,  I  heard  a  scuffle  on  the  stairs,  and 
discovered  that  my  young  gentleman  had  left  his  bed,  to 
hear  the  music.  At  other  times,  during  the  day,  in  the 
intervals  of  school-hours,  he  would  stand  under  the 
window  listening.  At  length  he  entrusted  to  me  his 
heart's  secret,  that  he  should  like  to  learn  music,  when  I 
taught  him  his  tonic  alphabet,  and  he  soon  knew  and 
could  do  as  much  as  his  tutor.  Upon  leaving  school,  he 
was  apprenticed  to  the  elder  Seeley,  the  bookseller ;  but, 
disliking  his  occupation,  he  left  it,  I  think,  before  he  was 
of  age.  He  did  not  lose  sight  of  his  old  master,  and  I 
introduced  him  to  Mr.  Vincent  Novello,  who  had  made 
himself  a  friend  to  me  ;  and  who,  not  merely  with  rare 
profusion  of  bounty  gave  Holmes  instruction,  but 
received  him  mto  his  house  and  made  him  one  of 
his  family.  With  them  he  resided  some  years.  I  was 
also  the  fortunate  means  of  recommending  him  to  the 
chief  proprietor  of  the  Atlas  newspaper  ;  and  to  that 
journal  during  a  long  period  he  contributed  a  series  of 
essays  and  critiques  upon  the  science  and  practice  of 
music,  which  raised  the  journal  into  a  reference  and  an 
authority  in  the  art.  He  wrote  for  the  proprietors  of  the 
Atlas  an  elegant  little  book  of  dilettante  criticism,  "A 


JOHN  KEATS.  143 

Ramble  among  the  Musicians  in  Germany."  Ar.d  in  the 
later  period  of  his  career  he  contributed  to  the  Musical 
Thnes  a  whole  series  of  masterly  essays  and  analyses  upon 
the  masses  of  Haydn,  Mozart,  and  Beetlioven.  His  own 
favourite  production  was  a  "  Life  of  Mozart,"  in  which 
he  performed  his  task  with  considerable  skill  and  equal 
modesty,  contriving  by  means  of  the  great  musician's 
own  letters  to  convert  the  work  into  an  autobiography. 

I  have  said  that  Holmes  used  to  listen  on  the  stairs. 
In  after-years,  when  Keats  was  reading  to  me  the  manu- 
script of  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  upon  the  repeating  of 
the  passage  when  Porphyro  is  listening  to  the  midnight 
music  in  the  hall  below, — 

The  boisterous  midnight  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  tnough  but  in  dying  tone  : 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  f;o7iej — 

"  that  line,"  said  he,  "  came  into  my  head  when  I  re- 
membered how  I  used  to  listen  in  bed  to  your  music  at 
school."  How  enchanting  would  be  a  record  of  the 
germs  and  first  causes  of  all  the  greatest  artists'  con- 
ceptions I  The  elder  Brunei's  first  hint  for  his  "  shield  " 
in  constructing  the  tunnel  under  the  Thames  was  taken 
from  watching  the  labour  of  a  sea  insect,  which,  having 
a  projecting  hood,  could  bore  into  the  ship's  timber 
unmolested  by  the  waves. 

It  may  have  been  about  this  time  that  Keats  gave  a 
signal  example  of  his  courage  and  stamina,  in  the  recorded 
instance  of  his  pugilistic  contest  with  a  butcher  bo}^  He 
told  me,  and  in  his  characteristic  manner,  of  their 
"  passage  of  arms."  The  brute,  he  said,  was  tormenting 
a  kitten,  and  he  interfered ;  when  a  threat  offered  was 
enough  for  his  mettle,  and  they  "  set  to."     He  thought 


144       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

he  should  be  beaten,  for  the  fellow  was  the  taller  and 
stronger;  but  like  an  authentic  pugilist,  my  young  poet 
found  that  he  had  planted  a  blow  which  "  told  "  upon 
his  antagonist ;  in  every  succeeding  round,  therefore  (for 
they  fought  nearly  an  hour),  he  never  failed  of  returning 
to  the  weak  point,  and  the  contest  ended  in  the  hulk 
being  led  home. 

In  my  knowledge  of  fellow-beings,  I  never  knew  one 
who  so  thoroughly  combined  the  sweetness  with  the 
power  of  gentleness,  and  the  irresistible  sway  of  anger,  as 
Keats.  His  indignation  would  have  made  the  boldest 
grave ;  and  they  who  had  seen  him  under  the  influence 
of  injustice  and  meanness  of  soul  would  not  forget  the 
expression  of  his  features — "the  form  of  his  visage  was 
changed."  Upon  one  occasion,  when  some  local  tyranny 
was  being  discussed,  he  amused  the  party  by  shouting, 
"  Why  is  there  not  a  human  dust-hole,  into  which  to 
tumble  such  fellows?  " 

Keats  had  a  strong  sense  of  humour,  although  he  was 
not,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  term,  a  humorist,  still  less 
a  farcist.  His  comic  fancy  lurked  in  the  outermost  and 
most  unlooked-for  images  of  association  ;  which,  indeed, 
may  be  said  to  form  the  components  of  humour  ;  never- 
theless, they  did  not  extend  beyond  the  quaijit  in  fulfil- 
ment and  success.  But  his  perception  of  humour,  with 
the  power  of  transmitting  it  by  imitation,  was  both  vivid 
and  irresistibly  amusing.  He  once  described  to  me  his 
having  gone  to  see  a  bear-baiting,  the  animal  the  property 
of  a  Mr,  Tom  Oliver.  The  performance  not  having 
begun,  Keats  was  near  to,  and  watched,  a  young  aspirant, 
who  had  brought  a  younger  under  his  wing  to  witness  the 
solemnity,  and  whom  he  oppressively  patronized,  instruct- 
ing him   in  the  names  and  qualities  of  all  the  magnates 


JOHN  KEATS.  145 

present.  Now  and  then,  in  his  zeal  to  manifest  and 
impart  his  knowledge,  he  would  forget  himself,  and  stray 
beyond  the  prescribed  bounds  into  the  ring,  to  the  lash 
ing  resentment  of  its  comptroller,  Mr.  William  Soames, 
who,  after  some  hints  of  a  practical  nature  to  "  keep 
back,"  began  laying  about  him  with  indiscriminate  and 
unmitigable  vivacity,  the  Peripatetic  signifying  to  his 
pupil,  "  My  eyes  !  Bill  Soames  giv'  me  sich  a  licker  !" 
evidently  grateful,  and  considering  himself  complimented 
upon  being  included  in  the  general  dispensation.  Keats's 
entertainment  with  and  appreciation  of  this  minor  scene 
of  low  life  has  often  recurred  to  me.  But  his  concurrent 
personification  of  the  baiting,  with  his  position — his  legs 
and  arms  bent  and  shortened  till  he  looked  like  Bruin  on 
his  hind  legs,  dabbing  his  fore  paws  hither  and  thither,  as 
the  dogs  snapped  at  him,  and  now  and  then  acting  the 
gasp  of  one  that  had  been  suddenly  caught  and  hugged 
— his  own  capacious  mouth  adding  force  to  the  persona- 
tion, was  a  remarkable  and  as  memorable  a  display.  I 
am  never  reminded  of  this  amusing  relation  but  it  is 
associated  with  that  forcible  picture  in  Shakespeare,  in 
"  Henry  VI.  :"— 

.    .     .     As  a  bear  encompass'd  round  with  dogs, 
Who  having  ^/«t7zW  a  few  and  made  tliem  cry, 
The  rest  stand  all  aloof  and  bark  at  him. 

Keats  also  attended  a  prize  fight  between  the  two  most 
skilful  "  light  weights  "  of  the  day,  Randal  and  Turner ; 
and  in  describing  the  rapidity  of  the  blows  of  the  one, 
while  the  other  was  falling,  he  tapped  his  fingers  on  the 
window-pane. 

I  make  no  apology  for  recording  these  events  in  his 
life  ;  they  are  characteristics  of  the  natural  man,  and 
prove,  moreover,  that  the  partaking  in  such  exhibitions 

L 


146        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

did  not  for  one  moment  blunt  the  gentler  emotions  of  his 
heart,  or  vulgarize  his  inborn  love  of  all  that  was  beauti- 
ful and  true.  He  would  never  have  been  a  "  slang  gent," 
bc^iuse  he  had  other  and  better  accomplishments  to  make 
him  conspicuous.  His  own  line  was  the  axiom  of  his 
moral  existence,  his  civil  creed  :  "  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a 
joy  for  ever,"  and  I  can  fancy  no  coarser  association  able 
to  win  him  from  his  faith.  Had  he  been  born  in  squalor 
he  would  have  emerged  a  gentleman.  Keats  was  not  an 
easily  swayable  man  ;  in  differing  with  those  he  loved  his 
firmness  kept  equal  pace  with  the  sweetness  of  his  per- 
suasion, but  with  the  rough  and  the  unlovable  he  kept 
no  terms — within  the  conventional  precincts,  of  course, 
of  social  order. 

From  Well  Walk  he  moved  to  another  quarter  of  the 
Heath,  Wentworth  Place,  I  think,  the  name.  Here  he 
became  a  sharing  inmate  with  Charles  Armitage  Brown, 
a  retired  Russia  merchant  upon  an  independence  and 
literary  leisure.  With  this  introduction  their  acquaintance 
commenced,  and  Keats  never  had  a  more  zealous,  a 
firmer,  or  more  practical  friend  and  adviser  than  Armitage 
Brown.  Mr.  Brown  brought  out  a  work  entitled, 
"Shakespeare's  Autobiographical  Poems.  Being  his 
Sonnets  clearly  developed ;  with  his  Character  drawn 
chiefly  from  his  Works."  It  cannot  be  said  that  the 
author  has  clearly  educed  his  theory  ;  but,  in  the  face  of 
his  failure  upon  the  main  point,  tlie  book  is  interesting 
for  the  heart-whole  zeal  and  homage  with  which  he  has 
gone  into  his  subject.  Brown  accompanied  Keats  in  his 
tour  in  the  Plebrides,  a  worthy  event  in  the  poet's  career, 
seeing  that  it  led  to  the  production  of  that  magnificent 
sonnet  to  "  Ailsa  Rock."  As  a  passing  observation,  and 
to  show  how  the  minutest  circumstance  did  not  escape 


JOHN  KEATS.  i47 

him,  he  told  me  that  when  he  first  came  upon  the  view 
of  Loch  Lomond  the  sun  was  setting,  the  lake  was  in 
shade,  and  of  a  deep  blue,  and  at  the  further  end  was 
"  a  slash  across  it  of  deep  orange."  The  description  of 
the  traceried  window  in  the  "Eve  of  St.  Agnes"  gives 
proof  of  the  intensity  of  his  feeling  for  colour. 

It  was  during  his  abode  in  Wentworth  Place,  that 
unsurpassedly  savage  attacks  upon  the  "  Endymion " 
appeared  in  some  of  the  principal  reviews — savage  attacks, 
and  personally  abusive  ;  and  which  would  damage  the 
sale  of  any  magazine  in  the  present  day. 

The  style  of  the  articles  directed  against  the  writers 
whom  the  party  had  nicknamed  the  "  Cockney  School " 
of  poetry,  may  be  conceived  from  its  producing  the 
following  speech  I  heard  from  Hazlitt :  "  To  pay  those 
fellows  in  their  own  coin,  the  way  would  be  to  begin  with 
Walter  Scott,  and  have  at  his  clui?ip  foot."  "Verily,  the 
former  times  were  not  better  than  these." 

To  say  that  these  disgusting  misrepresentations  did  not 
affect  the  consciousness  and  self-respect  oi  Keats  would 
be  to  underrate  the  sensitiveness  of  his  nature.  He  did 
feel  and  resent  the  insult,  but  far  more  the  injustice  of 
the  treatment  he  had  received  ;  and  he  told  me  so.  They 
no  doubt  had  injured  him  in  the  most  wanton  manner  ; 
but  if  they,  or  my  Lord  Byron,  ever  for  one  moment 
supposed  that  he  was  crushed  or  even  cowed  in  spirit  by 
the  treatment  he  had  received,  never  were  they  more 
deluded.  "  Snuffed  out  by  an  article,"  indeed  !  He  had 
infinitely  more  magnanimity,  in  its  fullest  sense,  than  that 
very  spoiled,  self-willed,  and  mean-souled  man — and  I 
have  unquestionable  authority  for  the  last  term.  To  say 
nothing  of  personal  and  private  transactions.  Lord 
Houghton's  observations,  in  his  life  of  our  poet,  will  be 

L    2 


148       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

full  authority  for  my  estimate  of  Lord  Byron.  "  Johnny 
Keats  "  had  indeed  "  a  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart," 
and  he  showed  it  in  the  best  way  ;  not  by  fighting  the 
"  bush-rangers  "  in  their  own  style — though  he  could  have 
done  that — but  by  the  resolve  that  he  would  produce  brain 
work  which  not  one  of  their  party  could  exceed  ;  and  he 
did,  for  in  the  year  1820  appeared  the  "Lamia,"  "Isa- 
bella," "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  and  the  "  Hyperion  " — that 
illustrious  fragment,  which  Shelley  said  "  had  the  character 
of  one  of  the  antique  desert  fragments;"  which  Leigh  Hunt 
called  a  "  gigantic  fragment,  like  a  ruin  in  the  desert,  or 
the  bones  of  the  Mastodon  ;"  and  Lord  Byron  confessed 
that  "  it  seemed  actually  inspired  by  the  Titans,  and  as 
sublime  as  ^schylus." 

All  this  wonderful  work  was  produced  in  scarcely  more 
than  one  year,  manifesting — with  health — what  his  brain 
could  achieve ;  but,  alas  !  the  insidious  disease  which 
carried  him  off  had  made  its  approach,  and  he  was  prepar- 
ing to  go  to,  or  had  already  departed  for,  Italy,  attended 
by  his  constant  and  self  sacrificing  friend  Severn.  Keats's 
mother  died  of  consumption  ;  and  he  nursed  his  younger 
brother,  in  the  same  disease,  to  the  last ;  and,  by  so  doing, 
in  all  probability  hastened  his  own  summons. 

Upon  the  publication  of  the  last  volume  of  poems, 
Charles  Lamb  wrote  one  of  his  finely  appreciative  and 
cordial  critiques  in  the  Morning  Chronicle.  At  that 
period  I  had  been  absent  for  some  weeks  from  London, 
and  had  not  heard  of  the  dangerous  state  of  Keats's 
health,  only  that  he  and  Severn  were  going  to  Italy  :  it 
was,  therefore,  an  unprepared-for  shock  which  brought 
me  the  news  of  his  death  in  Rome. 

Lord  Houghton,  in  his  1848  and  first  "Biography  of 
Keats,"  has  related  the  anecdote  of  the  young  poet's 


JOHN  KEATS.  149 

introduction  to  Wordsworth,  with  the  latter's  appreciation 
of  the  "  Hymn  to  Pan  "  (in  the  "  Endymion  "),  which  the 
author  had  been  desired  to  repeat,  and  the  Rydal-Mount 
poet's  snow-capped  comment  upon  it — "  H'm  !  a  pretty 
piece  of  Paganism  ! "  The  lordly  biographer,  with  his 
genial  and  placable  nature,  has  made  an  amiable  apology 
for  the  apparent  coldness  of  Wordsworth's  appreciation, 
"  that  it  was  probably  intended  for  some  slight  rebuke 
to  his  youthful  compeer,  whom  he  saw  absorbed  in  an 
order  of  ideas  that  to  him  appeared  merely  sensuous,  and 
would  have  desired  that  the  bright  traits  of  Greek 
mythology  should  be  sobered  down  by  a  graver  faith." 
Keats,  like  Shakespeare,  and  every  other  real  poet,  put 
his  whole  soul  into  what  he  had  imagined,  portrayed,  or 
embodied ;  and  hence  he  appeared  the  true  young 
Greek.  The  wonder  is  that  Wordsworth  should  have 
forgotten  the  quotation  that  might  have  been  made  from 
one  of  his  own  deservedly  illustrious  sonnets  : — 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us. 

Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  diis  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

From  Keats's  description  of  his  mentor's  manner,  as 
well  as  behaviour  that  evening,  it  would  seem  to  have 
been  one  of  the  usual  ebullitions  of  egoism,  not  to  say  of 
the  uneasiness  known  to  those  who  were  accustomed  to 
hear  the  great  moral  philosopher  discourse  upon  his 
own  productions,  and  descant  upon  those  of  a  con- 
tem.porary.  During  that  same  interview,  some  one  hav- 
ing observed  that  the  next  Waverley  novel  was  to  be 
"  Rob   Roy,"   Wordsworth    took   down   his  volume   of 


ISO       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Ballads,  and  read  to  the  company  "  Rob  Roy's  Grave  ;" 
then,  returning  it  to  the  shelf,  observed,  "  I  do  not 
know  what  more  Mr.  Scott  can  have  to  say  upon  the 
subject."  Leigh  Hunt,  upon  his  first  interview  with 
Wordsworth,  described  his  having  lectured  very  finely 
upon  his  own  writings,  repeating  the  entire  noble  sonnet, 
"  Great  men  have  been  among  us  " — "  in  a  grand  and 
earnest  tone : "  that  rogue,  Christopher  North,  added, 
"  Catch  him  repeating  any  other  than  his  own."  Upon 
another  and  similar  occasion,  one  of  the  party  had  quoted 
that  celebrated  passage  from  the  play  of  "  Henry  V.," 
"  So  work  the  honey-bees  ;  "  and  each  proceeded  to  pick 
out  his  "  pet  plum  "  from  that  perfect  piece  of  natural 
history  ;  when  Wordsworth  objected  to  the  line,  "  The 
singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold,"  because,  he  .said, 
of  the  unpleasant  repetition  of  "  ing"  in  it !  Vv^hy,  where 
were  his  poetical  ears  and  judgment  ?  But  more  than 
once  it  has  been  said  that  Wordsworth  had  not  a  genuine 
love  of  Shakespeare  :  that,  when  he  could,  he  always 
accompanied  a  '■'■pro"  with  his  '■'■con."  and,  Atticus-like, 
would  "just  hint  a  fault  and  hesitate  dislike."  Mr 
James  T.  Fields,  in  his  delightful  volume  of  *'  Yesterdays 
with  Authors,"  has  an  amiable  record  of  his  interview 
with  Wordsworth;  yet  he  has  the  following  casual  re- 
mark, "  I  thought  he  did  not  praise  easily  those  whose 
names  are  indissolubly  connected  with  his  own  in  the 
history  of  literature.  It  was  languid  praise,  at  least,  and 
I  observed  he  hesitated  for  mild  terms  which  he  could 
apply  to  names  almost  as  great  as  his  own."  Even  Crabb 
Robinson  more  than  once  mildly  hints  at  the  same  in- 
firmity. **  Truly  are  we  all  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and 
ill  together." 

When  Shelley  left   England  for  Italy,  Keats  told  me 
that  he  had  received  from  him  an  invitation  to  become 


JOHN  KEATS.  151 

his  guest,  and,  in  short,  to  make  one  of  his  household. 
It  was  upon  the  purest  principle  that  Keats  declined  his 
noble  proffer,  for  he  entertained  an  exalted  opinion  of 
Shelley's  genius — in  itself  an  inducement  j  he  also  knew 
of  his  deeds  of  bounty,  and,  from  their  frequent  social 
intercourse,  he  had  full  faith  in  the  sincerity  of  his  pro- 
posal ;  for  a  more  crystalline  heart  than  Shelley's  has 
rarely  throbbed  in  human  bosom.  He  was  incapable  of 
an  untruth,  or  of  deceit  in  any  form.  Keats  said  that  in 
declining  the  invitation  his  sole  motive  was  the  conscious- 
ness, which  would  be  ever  prevalent  with  him,  of  his 
being,  in  its  utter  extent,  not  a  free  agent,  even  v/ithin 
such  a  circle  as  Shelley's — he  himself,  nevertheless,  being 
the  most  unrestricted  of  beings.  Mr.  Trelawne)'',  a 
familiar  of  the  family,  has  confirmed  the  unwavering 
testimony  to  Shelley's  bounty  of  nature,  where  he  says, 
"  Shelley  was  a  being  absolutely  without  selfishness."  The 
poorest  cottagers  knew  and  benefited  by  his  thoroughly 
p?-actical  and  unselfish  nature  during  his  residence  at 
Marlow,  when  he  would  visit  them,  and,  having  gone 
through  a  course  of  medical  study  in  order  that  he  might 
assist  them  with  advice,  would  commonly  administer  the 
tonic,  which  such  systems  usually  require,  of  a  good  basin 
of  broth  or  pea-soup.  And  I  believe  that  I  am  infring- 
ing on  no  private  domestic  delicacy  when  repeating  that 
he  has  been  known  upon  an  immediate  urgency  to  purloin 
— "  Convey  the  wise  it  call " — a  portion  of  the  warmest  of 
Mrs.  Shelley's  wardrobe  to  protect  some  poor  starving 
sister.  One  of  the  richer  residents  of  Marlow  told  me 
that  "  they  all  considered  him  a  madman."  I  wish  he 
had  bitten  the  whole  squad. 

No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  "  wisdom  "  oi  that  madness. 


152        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Shelley's  figure  vras  a  little  above  the  middle  height, 
slender,  and  of  delicate  construction,  which  appeared  the 
rather  from  a  lounging  or  waving  manner  in  his  gait,  as 
though  his  frame  was  compounded  barely  of  muscle  and 
tendon;  and  that  the  power  of  walking  was  an  achievement 
with  him  and  not  a  natural  habit.  Yet  I  should  suppose 
that  he  was  not  a  valetudinarian,  although  that  has  been 
said  of  him  on  account  of  his  spare  and  vegetable  diet  : 
for  I  have  the  remembrance  of  his  scampering  and  bound- 
ing over  the  gorse-bushes  on  Hampstead  Heath  late  one 
night, — now  close  upon  us,  and  now  shouting  from  the 
height  like  a  wild  school-boy.  He  was  both  an  active 
and  an  enduring  walker—  feats  which  do  not  accompany 
an  ailing  and  feeble  constitution.  His  face  was  round, 
flat,  pale,  with  small  features  ;  mouth  beautifully  shaped  ; 
hair  bright  brown  and  wavy ;  and  such  a  pair  of  eyes  as 
are  rarely  in  the  human  or  any  other  head, — intensely 
blue,  with  a  gentle  and  lambent  expression,  yet  wonder- 
fully alert  and  engrossing ;  nothing  appeared  to  escape 
his  knowledge. 

Whatever  peculiarity  there  might  have  been  in  Shellev's 
religious  faith,  I  have  the  best  authority  for  believing  that 
it  was  confined  to  the  early  period  of  his  life.  The 
pi'actical  result  of  its  course  of  adion,  I  am  sure,  had  its 
source  from  the  "  Sermon  on  the  Mount."  There  is  not 
one  clause  in  that  Divine  code  which  his  conduct  towards 
his  fellow  mortals  did  not  confirm  and  substantiate  him 
to  be — in  action  a  follower  of  Christ.  Yet,  when  the 
news  arrived  in  London  of  the  death  of  Shelley  and 
Captain  Williams  by  drowning  near  Spezzia,  an  evening 
journal  of  that  day  capped  the  intelligence  with  the 
following  remark : — "  He  will  now  know  whether  there 
is  a  Hell  or  not"     I  hope  there  is  not  one  journalist  ol 


JOHN  KEATS.  153 

the  present  day  who  would  dare  to  utter  that  surmise  in 
his  record.  So  much  for  the  progress  of  freedom  and  the 
power  of  opinion. 

At  page  100,  vol.  i.,  of  his  first  "  Life  of  Keats,"  Lord 
Houghton  has  quoted  a  literary  portrait  which  he  received 
from  a  lady  who  used  to  see  him  at  Hazlitt's  lectures  at 
the  Surrey  Institution.     The  building  was  on  the  south, 
right-hand   side,   and    close    to    Blackfriars    Bridge.      I 
believe   that    the    whole    of  Hazlitt's    lectures    on    the 
British  poets  and  the  writers  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth 
were  delivered  in  that  institution  during  the  years  181 7 
and  181 8  ;  shortly  after  which  the  establishment  appears 
to  have  been  broken  up.     The  lady's  remark  upon  the 
character    and  expression    of   Keats's  features    is    both 
happy  and  true.     She  says,  "  His  countenance  lives  in 
my  mind  as  one  of  singular  beauty  and  brightness  ;   it 
had  an  expression  as  if  he  had  been  lookingon  some  glorious 
sight."     That's  excellent.     "  His  mouth  was  full,  and  less 
intellectual  than  his  other  features."     True  again.     But 
when  our  artist  pronounces  that  "  his  eyes  were  large  and 
blue"  and  that  "  his  hair  was  aubur?i"  I  am  naturally 
reminded   of  the    "  Chameleon  "   fable  : — "  They   were 
brown,  ma'am — bro7vn,  I  assure  you  ! "     The  fact  is,  the 
lady  was  enchanted — and  I  cannot  wonder  at  it — with 
the  whole  character  of  that  beaming  face;  and  "blue" 
and   "  auburn "    being  the  favourite   tints   of  the   front 
divine  in  the  lords  of  the  creation,  the  poet's  eyes  conse- 
quently became  "  blue  "  and  his  hair  "  auburn."     Colours, 
however,  vary   with   the  prejudice   or  partiality   of  the 
spectator ;  and,  moreover,  people  do  not  agree  upon  the 
most  palpable  prismatic  tint.     A  writing-master  whom  we 
had  at  Enfield  was  an  artist  of  more  than  ordinary  merit, 
but  he  had  one  dominant  defect,  he  could  not  distinguish 


154       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

between  true  blue  and  true  green.  So  that,  upon  one 
occasion,  when  he  was  exhibiting  to  us  a  landscape  he 
had  just  completed,  I  hazarded  the  critical  question,  why 
he  painted  his  trees  so  bliiel  "Blue!"  he  replied, 
"  What  do  you  call  green  ?  "  Reader,  alter  in  your  copy 
of  the  "Life  of  Keats,"  vol.  i.,  page  103,  "eyes"  light 
hazel,  "  hair  "  lightish  brown  and  tvavy. 

The  most  perfect  and  favourite  portrait  of  hirn  was  the 
one— the  first— by  Severn,  published  in  Leigh  Hunt's 
"  Lord  Byron  and  his  Contemporaries,"  which  I  remem- 
ber the  artist  sketching  in  a  few  minutes,  one  evening, 
when  several  of  Keats's  friends  were  at  his  apartments  in 
the  Poultry.  The  portrait  prefixed  to  the  "  Life"  (also 
by  Severn)  is  a  most  excellent  one-look-and-expression 
likeness— an  every-day  and  of  "the  earth,  earthy"  one; 
and  the  last,  which  the  same  artist  painted,  and  which 
is  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  John  Hunter,  of  Craig 
Crook,  Edinburgh,  may  be  an  equally  felicitous  rendering 
of  one  look  and  manner  ;  but  I  do  not  intimately  recog- 
nize it.  There  is  another  and  a  curiously  unconscious 
likeness  of  him  in  the  charming  Dulwich  Gallery  of 
Pictures.  It  is  in  the  portrait  of  Wouvermans,  by  Rem- 
brandt. It  is  just  so  much  of  a  resemblance  as  to  remind 
the  friends  of  the  poet,  although  not  such  a  one  as  the 
immortal  Dutchman  would  have  made  had  the  poet  been 
his  sister.  It  has  a  plaintive  and  melancholy  expression 
which,  I  rejoice  to  say,  I  do  not  associate  with  Keats. 

There  is  one  of  his  attitudes  during  familiar  conversa- 
tion which  at  times  (wdth  the  whole  earnest  manner  and 
sweet  expression  of  the  man)  ever  presents  itself  to  me 
as  though  I  had  seen  him  only  last  week.  How  gracious 
is  the  boon  that  the  benedictions  and  the  blessings  in  our 
life  careers  last  Ir  nger,  and  recur  with  stronger  influences 


JOHN  KEATS.  155 

than  the  ill-deeds  and  the  curses  !  The  attitude  I  speak 
of  was  that  of  cherishing  one  leg  over  the  knee  of  the 
other,  smoothing  the  instep  Avith  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
In  this  action  I  mostly  associate  him  in  an  eager  parley 
with  Leigh  Hunt  in  his  little  Vale  of  Health  cottage. 
This  position,  if  I  mistake  not,  is  in  the  last  portrait  of 
him  at  Craig  Crook ;  if  not,  it  is  a  reminiscent  one, 
painted  after  his  death.  His  stature  could  have  been 
very  little  more  than  five  feet ;  but  he  was,  withal,  com- 
pactly made  and  well-proportioned  ;  and  before  the 
hereditary  disorder  which  carried  him  off  began  to  show 
itself,  he  was  active,  athletic,  and  enduringly  strong— as 
the  fight  with  the  butcher  gave  full  attestation. 

His  perfect  friend,  Joseph  Severn,  writes  of  him, 
*'  Here  in  Rome,  as  I  write,  I  look  back  through  forty 
years  of  worldly  changes,  and  behold  Keats's  dear  image 
again  in  memory.  It  seems  as  if  he  should  be  living  with 
me  now,  inasmuch  as  I  never  could  understand  his 
strange  and  contradictory  death,  his  falling  away  so 
suddenly  from  health  and  strength.  He  had  a  fine 
compactness  of  person,  which  we  regard  as  the  promise 
of  longevity,  and  no  mind  was  ever  more  exultant  in 
youthful  feeling." 

The  critical  world  — by  which  term  I  mean  the  censor- 
ious portion  of  it,  for  many  have  no  other  idea  of 
criticism  than  that  of  censure  and  objection — the  critical 
world  have  so  gloated  over  the  feebler,  or,  if  they  will, 
the  defective  side  of  Keats's  genius,  and  his  friends  have 
so  amply  justified  him,  that  I  feel  inclined  to  add  no  more 
to  the  category  of  opinions  than  to  say  that  the  only 
fault  in  his  poetry  I  could  discover  was  a  redundancy  of 
imagery — that  exuberance,  by  the  way,  being  a  quality  of 
the  greatest  promisCj  seeing  that  it  is  the  constant  acconi- 


156        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

paniment  of  a  young  and  teeming  genius.  But  his  steady- 
friend,  Leigh  Hunt,  has  rendered  the  amplest  and  truest 
record  of  his  mental  accomplishment  in  the  preface  to  his 
"  Foliage,"  quoted  at  page  150  of  the  first  volume  of  the 
*'  Life  of  Keats  ;"  and  his  biographer  has  so  zealously, 
and,  I  would  say,  so  amiably,  summed  up  his  character 
and  intellectual  qualities,  that  I  can  add  no  more  than 
my  assent. 

With  regard  to  Keats's  political  opinions  I  have  little 
doubt  that  his  whole  civil  creed  was  comprised  in  the 
master  principle  of  "universal  liberty" — viz.  "Equal 
and  stern  justice  to  all,  irom  tlie  duke  to  the  dustman." 

There  are  constant  indications  through  the  memoirs 
and  in  the  letters  of  Keats  of  his  profound  reverence  for 
Shakespeare.  His  own  intensity  of  thought  and  expression 
visibly  strengthened  with  the  study  of  his  idol ;  and  he 
knew  but  little  of  him  till  he  had  himself  become  an 
author.  A  marginal  note  by  him  in  a  folio  copy  of  the 
plays  is  an  example  of  the  complete  absorption  his  mind 
had  undergone  during  the  process  of  his  matriculation  ; 
and,  through  life,  however  long  with  any  of  us,  we  are  all 
in  progress  of  matriculation,  as  we  study  the  "  myriad- 
minded's  "  system  of  philosophy.  The  note  that  Keats 
made  was  this:— "The  genius  of  Shakespeare  was  an 
innate  timversality  ;  wherefore  he  laid  the  achievements  of 
human  intellect  prostrate  beneath  his  indolent  and  kingly 
gaze  ;  he  could  do  easily  jneii's  71 1 most.  His  plan  of  tasks  to 
come  was  not  of  this  world.  If  what  he  proposed  to  do 
hereafter  would  not  in  the  idea  answer  the  aim,  how  tre- 
mendous must  have  been  his  conception  of  ultimates  !"  I 
question  whether  any  one  of  the  recognized  high  priests 
of  the  temple  has  uttered  a  loftier  homily  in  honour  of 
the  world's  intellectual  homage  and  renown. 


JOHN  KEATS.  157 

A  passage  in  one  of  Keats's  letters  to  me  evidences 
that  he  had  a  "firm  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul," 
and,  as  he  adds,  "  so  had  Tom,"  whose  eyes  he  had 
just  closed.  I  once  heard  him  launch  into  a  rhapsody  on 
the  genius  of  Moses,  who,  he  said,  deserved  the  bene- 
diction of  the  whole  world,  were  it  only  for  his  institution 
of  the  ''Sabbath."  But  Keats  was  no  "Sabbatarian"  in 
the  modern  conventional  acceptation  of  the  term. 
"  Every  day,"  he  once  said,  was  "  Sabbath"  to  him,  as  it 
is  to  every  grateful  mind,  for  blessings  momentarily 
bestowed  upon  us.  This  recalls  Wordsworth's  lines 
where  he  tells  us  that  Nature, — 

Still  constant  in  her  worship,  still 
Conforming  to  th'  Eternal  will. 
Whether  men  sow  or  reap  the  fields, 
Divine  admonishments  she  yields, 
That  not  by  hand  alone  we  live, 
Or  what  a  hand  of  flesh  can  give  ; 
That  every  day  should  have  some  part 
Free  for  a  Sabbath  of  the  heart : 
So  shall  the  seventh  be  truly  blest. 
From  morn  to  eve  with  hallow'd  rest. 

Sunday  was  indeed  Keats's  "  day  of  rest,"  and  I  may 
add,  too,  of  untainted  mirth  and  gladness ;  as  I  believe, 
too,  of  unprofessing,  unostentatious  gratitude.  His  whole 
course  of  life,  to  its  very  last  act,  was  one  routine  of  un- 
selfishness and  of  consideration  for  others'  feelings.  The 
approaches  of  death  having  come  on,  he  said  to  his 
untiring  nurse-friend, — "Severn  — I — lift  me  up.  I  am 
dying.  I  shall  die  easy  ;  doiit  be  frightened  ;  be  firm,  and 
thank  God  it  has  come." 

Now  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  heaven, 

The  soul  of  Adonais,  hke  a  star. 

Beams  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


15S        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS, 


SOME  LETTERS  OF  CHARLES  LAMB; 

WITH 

Reminiscences  of  Himself  awakened  thereby. 

by  mary  covvden  clarke. 

The  other  day,  in  looking  over  some  long-hoarded 
papers,  I  came  across  the  following  letters,  which  struck 
me  as  being  too  intrinsically  delightful  to  be  any  longer 
withheld  from  general  enjoyment.  The  time  when  they 
were  written — while  they  had  all  the  warm  life  ot 
affectionate  intercourse  that  refers  to  current  personal 
events,  inspiring  the  wish  to  treasure  them  in  privacy — 
has  faded  into  the  shadow  of  the  past.  Some  of  the 
persons  addressed  or  referred  to  have  left  this  earth ; 
others  have  survived  to  look  back  upon  their  young 
former  selves  with  the  same  kindliness  of  consideration 
with  which  Charles  Lamb  himself  confessed  to  looking 
back  upon  "  the  child  Elia — that  '  other  me,'  there,  in 
the  background,"  and  cherishing  its  remembrance.  Even 
the  girl,  then  known  among  her  friends  by  the  second  of 
her  baptismal  names,  before  and  not  long  after  she  had 
exchanged  her  maiden  name  of  Mary  Victoria  Novello 
for  the  married  one  with  which  she  signs  her  present 
communication,  can  feel  willing  to  share  with  her  more 
recent  friends  and  readers  the  pleasure  derived  from  dear 


CHARLES  LAMB.  159 

and  honoured  Charles  Lamb's  sometimes  playful,  some- 
times earnest  allusions  to  her  identity. 

The  first  letter  is,  according  to  his  frequent  wont, 
undated ;  and  the  post-mark  is  so  much  blurred  as  to  be 
undecipherable  ;  but  it  is  addressed  "  V.  Novello,  Esqre., 
for  C.  C.  Clarke,  Esqre.  :"— 

My  dear  Sir, — Your  letter  has  lain  in  a  drawer  of  my 
desk,  upbraiding  me  every  time  I  open  the  said  drawer,  but 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  answer  such  a  letter  in  such  a  place, 
and  I  am  out  of  the  habit  of  replying  to  epistles  otherwhere 
than  at  office.  You  express  yourself  concerning  H.  like  a  true 
friend,  and  have  made  me  feel  that  I  have  somehow  neglected 
him,  but  without  knowing  very  well  how  to  rectify  it.  I  live 
so  remote  from  him — by  Hackney — that  he  is  almost  out  of 
the  pale  of  visitation  at  Hampstead.  And  I  come  but  seldom 
to  Cov'  Gard"  this  summer  time — and  when  I  do,  am  sure  to 
pay  for  the  late  hours  and  pleasant  Novello  suppers  which  I 
incur.  I  also  am  an  invalid.  But  I  will  hit  upon  some  way, 
that  you  shall  not  have  cause  for  your  reproof  in  future.  But 
do  not  think  I  take  the  hint  unkindly.  When  I  shall  be 
brought  low  by  any  sickness  or  untoward  circumstance, 
write  just  such  a  letter  to  some  tardy  friend  of  mine — or  come 
up  yourself  with  your  friendly  Henshaw  face — and  that  will 
be  better.  I  shall  not  forget  in  haste  our  casual  day  at 
Margate.  May  we  have  many  such  there  or  elsewhere  ! 
God  bless  you  for  your  kindness  to  H.,  which  I  will  remem- 
ber. But  do  not  show  N.  this,  for  the  flouting  infidel  doth 
mock  when  Christians  cry  God  bless  us.  Yours  and  his,  too, 
and  all  our  little  circle's  most  affect*  C.  Lamb. 

Mary's  love  included. 

"  H."  in  the  above  letter  refers  to  Leigh  Hunt ;  but  the 
initials  and  abbreviated  forms  of  words  used  by  Charles 
Lamb  in  these  letters  are  here  preserved  verbatim. 

The  second  letter  is  addressed  "  C.  C.  Clarke,  Esqre.," 
and  has  for  post-mark  "  Fe.  26,  1828  :" — 


t6o        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Enfield,  25  Feb. 

My  dear  Clarke, — You  have  been  accumulating  on  me 
such  a  heap  of  pleasant  obligations  that  I  feel  uneasy  in  writing 
as  to  a  Benefactor.  Your  smaller  contributions,  the  little  weekly 
rills,  are  refreshments  in  the  Desart,  but  your  large  books 
were  feasts.  I  hope  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  to  whom  I  encharged  it, 
has  taken  Hunt's  Lord  B.  to  the  Novellos.  His  picture  of 
Literary  Lordship  is  as  pleasant  as  a  disagreeable  subject  can 
be  made,  his  own  poor  man's  Education  at  dear  Christ's  is 
as  good  and  hearty  as  the  subject.  Hazlitt's  speculative 
episodes  are  capital;  I  skip  the  Battles.  But  how  did  I 
deserve  to  have  the  Book  ?  The  Companion  has  too  much 
of  Madam  Pasta.  Theatricals  have  ceased  to  be  popular 
attractions.  His  walk  home  after  the  Play  is  as  good  as  the 
best  of  the  old  Indicators.  The  watchmen  are  emboxed  in  a 
niche  of  fame,  save  the  skaiting  one  that  must  be  still  fugitive. 
I  wish  I  could  send  a  scrap  for  good  will.  But  I  have  been 
most  seriously  unwell  and  nervous  a  long  long  time.  I  have 
scarce  mustered  courage  to  begin  this  short  note,  but  con- 
science duns  me. 

I  had  a  pleasant  letter  from  your  sister,  greatly  over 
acknowledging  my  poor  sonnet.  I  think  I  should  have 
replied  to  it,  but  tell  her  I  think  so.  Alas  for  sonnetting,  'tis 
as  the  nerves  are  ;  all  the  summer  I  was  dawdling  among 
oreen  lanes,  and  verses  came  as  thick  as  fancies.  I  am  sunk 
winterly  below  prose  and  zero. 

But  I  trust  the  vital  principle  is  only  as  under  snow.  That 
I  shall  yet  laugh  again. 

I  suppose  the  great  change  of  place  affects  me,  but  I  could 
not  have  lived  in  Town,  I  could  not  bear  company. 

I  see  Novello  flourishes  in  the  Del  Capo  line,  and  dedica- 
tions are  not  forgotten.  I  read  the  Atlas.  When  I  pitched 
on  the  Ded°  I  looked  for  the  Broom  ol  "  Cowden  knows  "  to 
be  harmonized,  but  'twas  summat  of  Rossini's. 

I  want  to  hear  about  Hone,  does  he  stand  above  water, 
how  is  his  son  ?  I  have  delay'd  writing  to  him,  till  it  seems 
impossible.     Break  the  ice  for  me. 

The  wet  ground  here  is  intolerable,  the  sky  above  clear 
and  delusive,  but  under  foot  quagmires  from  night  showers, 


CHARLES  LAAIB,  1 6 1 

and  I  am  cold-footed  and  moisture-abhorring  as  a  cat;  never- 
theless I  yesterday  tramped  to  Waltham  Cross  ;  perhaps  the 
poor  bit  of  exertion  necessary  to  scribble  this  was  owing  to 
that  unusual  bracing. 

If  I  get  out,  I  shall  get  stout,  and  then  something  will 
out — I  mean  for  the  Companion — you  see  I  rhyme  in- 
sensibly. 

Traditions  are  rife  here  of  one  Clarke  a  schoolmaster,  and 
a  runaway  pickle  named  Holmes,  but  much  obscurity  hangs 
over  it.     Is  it  possible  they  can  be  any  relations  ? 

'Tis  worth  the  research,  when  you  can  find  a  sunny  day, 
with  ground  firm,  &c.  Master  Sexton  is  intelligent,  and  for 
half-a-crown  he'll  pick  you  up  a  Father. 

In  truth  we  shall  be  most  glad  to  see  any  of  the  Novellian 
circle,  middle  of  the  week  such  as  can  come,  or  Sunday,  as 
can't.  But  Spring  will  burgeon  out  quickly,  and  then,  we'll 
talk  more. 

You'd  like  to  see  the  improvements  on  the  Chase,  the  new 
Cross  in  the  market-place,  the  Chandler's  shop  from  whence 
the  rods  were  fetch'd.  They  are  raised  a  farthing  since  the 
spread  of  Education.  But  perhaps  you  don't  care  to  be 
reminded  of  the  Holofernes'  days,  and  nothing  remains  of  the 
old  laudable  profession,  but  the  clear,  firm,  impossible-to-be- 
mistoken  schoolmaster  text  hand  with  which  is  subscribed 
the  ever-welcome  name  of  Chas.  Cowden  C.  Let  me  crowd 
in  both  our  loves  to  all— C.  L.  [Added  on  the  fold-down 
of  the  letter  :]  Let  me  never  be  forgotten  to  include  in  my 
rememb"'  my  good  friend  and  whilom  correspondent  Master 
Stephen. 

How,  especially,  is  Victoria  ? 

I  try  to  remember  all  I  used  to  meet  at  Shacklewell.  The 
little  household,  cake-producing,  wine-bringing  out  Emma^ 
the  old  servant,  that  didn't  stay,  and  ought  to  have  staid,  and 
was  always  very  dirty  and  friendly,  and  Miss  H.,  the  counter- 
tenor with  a  fine  voice,  whose  sister  married  Thurtell.  They 
all  live  in  my  mind's  eye,  and  Mr.  N.'s  and  Holmes's  walks 
with  us  half  back  after  supper.     Troja  fuit  ! 

His  hearty  yet  modestly-rendered  thanks  for  lent  and 

M 


1 62        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

given  books ;  his  ever-affectionate  mention  of  Christ's 
Hospital  ;  his  enjoyment  of  Hazlitt's  "  Life  of  Napoleon," 
minus  "the  battles  ;"  his  cordial  commendation  of  Leigh 
Hunt's  periodical,  the  CoDipanioii  (with  the  witty  play  on 
the  word  "  fugitive  "),  and  his  wish  that  he  could  send 
the  work  a  contribution  from  his  own  pen ;  his  touching 
reference  to  the  susceptibility  of  his  nervous  system  ;  the 
sportive  misuse  of  musical  terms  when  alluding  to  his 
musician  friend  Vincent  Novello,  immortalized  in  Ella's 
celebrated  "  Chapter  on  Ears  ;"  his  excellent  pun  in  the 
word  "insensibly;"  his  humorous  mode  of  touching  upon 
the  professional  avocation  of  his  clerkly  correspondent's 
fother  and  self— the  latter  having  been  usher  in  the  school 
kept  some  years  previously  at  Enfield  by  the  former — 
while  conveying  a  genuine  compliment  to  the  handwriting 
which  at  eighty-five  is  still  the  "  clear,  firm,  impossible-to- 
be-mistaken  schoolmaster  text  hand  "  that  it  was  at  forty- 
one,  when  Lamb  wrote  these  words ;  the  genial  mention 
of  the  hospitable  children ;  the  whimsically  wrong- 
circumstanced  recollection  of  the  "  counter-tenor  "  lady  ; 
the  allusion  to  the  night  w\alks  "  half  back  "  home  ;  and 
the  classically-quoted  words  of  regi^et— are  all  wonderfully 
characteristic  of  beautiful-minded  Charles  Lamb.  In 
connexion  with  the  juvenile  hospitality  may  be  recorded 
an  incident  that  illustrates  his  words.  When  William 
Etty  returned  as  a  young  artist  student  from  Rome,  and 
called  at  the  Novellos'  house,  it  chanced  that  the  parents 
were  from  home  ;  but  the  children,  who  were  busily 
employed  in  fabricating  a  treat  of  home-made  hard-bake 
(or  toffy),  made  the  visitor  welcome  by  offering  him  a  piece 
of  their  just-finished  sweetmeat,  as  an  appropriate  refection 
after  his  long  walk  ;  and  he  declared  that  it  was  the  most 
veritable  piece  of  spontaneous  hospitality  he    had  ever 


CHARLES  LAMB.  163 

met  with,  since  the  children  gave  him  what  they  thought 
most  dehcious  and  best  worthy  of  acceptance.  Charles 
Lamb  so  heartily  shared  this  opinion  of  the  subsequently 
renowned  painter  that  he  brought  a  choice  condiment  in 
the  shape  of  ajar  of  preserved  ginger  for  the  little  Novellos' 
delectation  ;  and  when  some  officious  elder  suggested 
that  it  was  lost  upon  children,  therefore  had  better  be 
reserved  for  the  grown  up  people,  Lamb  would  not  hear 
of  the  transfer,  but  insisted  that  children  were  excellent 
judges  of  good  things,  and  that  they  must  and  should 
have  the  cate  in  question.  He  was  right,  for  long  did  the 
remembrance  remain  in  the  family  of  that  delicious  rarity, 
and  of  the  mode  in  which  "  Mr.  Lamb  "  stalked  up  and 
down  the  passage  with  a  mysterious  harberingering  look  and 
stride,  muttering  something  that  sounded  like  conjuration, 
holding  the  precious  jar  under  his  arm,  and  feigning  to  have 
found  it  stowed  away  in  a  dark  chimney  somewhere  near. 
Another  characteristic  point  is  recalled  by  a  concluding 
sentence  of  this  letter.  On  one  occasion — when  Charles 
Lamb  and  his  admirable  sister  Mary  Lamb  had  been 
accompanied  "halfback  after  supper"  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Novello,  Edward  Holmes,  and  Charles  Cowden  Clarke, 
between  Shacklewell  Green  and  Colebrooke  Cottage, 
beside  the  New  River  at  Islington,  where  the  Lambs 
then  lived,  the  whole  party  interchanging  lively,  brightest 
talk  as  they  passed  along  the  road  that  they  had  all  to 
themselves  at  that  late  hour — he,  as  usual,  was  the  noblest 
of  the  talkers.  Arrived  at  the  usual  parting-place.  Lamb 
and  his  sister  walked  on  a  few  steps ;  then,  suddenly 
turning,  he  shouted  out  after  his  late  companions  in  a 
tone  that  startled  the  midnight  silence,  "  You're  very  nice 
people  ! "  sending  them  on  their  way  home  in  happy 
laughter  at  his  friendly  oddity. 

M  2 


1 64        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

The  third  is  addressed  to  "C.  C.  Clarke.  Escjre.," 
without  date;  but  it  must  have  been  written  in  1828  : — 

Dear  Clarke, — We  did  expect  to  see  you  with  Victoria 
and  the  Novellos  befoie  this,  and  do  not  quite  understand 
why  we  have  not.  Mrs.  N.  and  V.  [Vincent]  promised 
us  after  the  York  expedition  ;  a  day  being  named  before, 
which  fail'd.  'Tis  not  too  late.  The  autumn  leaves  drop  gold, 
and  Enfield  is  beautifuUer — to  a  common  eye — than  when 
you  lurked  at  the  Greyhound.  Benedicks  are  close,  but  how 
I  so  totally  missed  you  at  that  time,  going  for  my  morning 
cup  of  ale  duly,  is  a  mystery.  'Twas  stealing  a  match 
before  one's  face  in  earnest.  But  certainly  we  had  not  a 
dream  of  your  appropinquity.  I  instantly  prepared  an 
Epithalamium,  in  the  form  of  a  Sonata — which  I  was  sending 
to  Novello  to  compose — but  Mary  forbid  it  me,  as  too  light 
for  the  occasion — as  if  the  subject  required  anything  heavy — 
■ — so  in  a  tiff  with  her,  I  sent  no  congratulation  at  all.  Tho' 
I  promise  you  the  wedding  was  very  pleasant  news  to  me 
indeed.  Let  your  reply  name  a  day  this  next  week,  when  you 
will  come  as  many  as  a  coach  will  hold  ;  such  a  day  as  we 
had  at  Dulwich.  My  very  kindest  love  and  Mary's  to  Victoria 
and  the  Novellos.  The  enclosed  is  from  a  friend  nameless,  but 
highish  in  office,  and  a  man  whose  accuracy  of  statement  may 
be  relied  on  with  implicit  confidence.  He  wants  the  cxposi 
to  appear  in  a  newspaper  as  the  "  greatest  piece  of  legal  and 
Parliamentary  villainy  he  ever  rememb'',"  and  he  has  had 
experience  in  both  ;  and  thinks  it  would  answer  afterwards 
in  a  cheap  pamphlet  printed  at  Lambeth  in  8°  sheet,  as  16,000 
families  in  that  parish  are  interested.  I  know  not  whether  the 
present  Examiner  keeps  up  the  character  of  exposing  abuses, 
for  I  scarce  see  a  paper  now.  If  so,  you  may  ascertain  Mr. 
Hunt  of  the  strictest  truth  of  the  statement,  at  the  peril  of 
my  head.  But  if  this  won't  do,  transmit  it  me  back,  I  beg,  per 
coach,  or  better,  bring  it  with  you.     Yours  unaltered, 

C.  Lamb. 

This  letter  quaintly  rebukes,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  most 
affectionately    congratulates,   the    friend   addressed   for 


CHARLES  LAMB.  165 

silently  making  honeymoon  quarters  of  the  spot  where 
Charles  Lamb  then  resided.  But  lovely  Enfield — a  very 
beau-ideal  of  an  English  village — was  the  birthplace  of 
Charles  Cowden  Clarke  ;  and  the  Greyhound  was  a  sim- 
ple hostehy  kept  by  an  old  man  and  his  daughter,  where 
there  was  a  pretty  white-curtained,  quiet  room,  with  a 
window  made  green  by  bowering  vine  leaves  ;  combining 
much  that  was  tempting  as  an  unpretending  retirement 
for  a  town-dweller  to  take  his  young  new-made  wife  to. 
The  invitation  to  "  name  a  day  this  next  week "  was 
cordially  responded  to  by  a  speedy  visit  ;  and  very  likely 
it  was  on  that  occasion  Charles  Lamb  told  the  wedded 
pair  of  another  bridal  couple  who,  he  said,  when  they 
arrived  at  the  first  stage  of  their  marriage  tour,  found  each 
other's  company  so  tedious  that  they  called  the  landlord 
upstairs  to  enliven  t':em  by  his  conversation.  The 
"  Epithalamium,"  here  called  a  "Sonata,"  is  the 
"  Serenata "  contained  in  the  next  letter,  addressed  to 
"Vincent  Novello,  Esqre.:" — 

My  dear  Novello,— I  am  afraid  I  shall  appear  rather 
tardy  in  offering  my  congratulations,  however  sincere,  upon 
your  daughter's  marriage.'  The  truth  is,  I  had  put  together 
a  little  Serenata  upon  the  occasion,  but  was  prevented  from 
sending  it  by  my  sister,  to  whose  judgment  I  am  apt  to  defer 
too  much  in  these  kind  of  things  ;  so  that,  now  I  have  her 
consent,  the  offering,  I  am  afraid,  will  have  lost  the  grace  of 
seasonableness.  Such  as  it  is,  I  send  it.  She  thinks  it  a  little 
too  old-fashioned  in  the  manner,  too  much  like  what  they 
wrote  a  century  back.  But  I  cannot  write  in  the  modern  style, 
if  I  try  ever  so  hard.  I  have  attended  to  the  proper  divisions 
for  the  music,  and  you  will  have  little  difficulty  in  composing 
it.  If  I  may  advise,  make  Pepusch  your  model,  or  Blow.  It 
will  be  necessary  to  have  a  good  second  voice,  as  the  stress 
of  the  melody  lies  there  : — 

*  Which  marriage  took  place  5th  July,  1828. 


i66        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


SERENATA,  FOR  TWO  VOICES, 

On  the  Mcwriage  of  Charles  Coiudoi  Clarke,  Esqre.,  to 
Victoria,  eldest  daughter  of  Vincent  Novello,  Esqre. 

Duetto. 

Wake  th'  harmonious  voice  and  string, 
Love  and  Hymen's  triumph  sing, 
Sounds  with  secret  charms  combining, 
In  melodious  union  joining, 
Best  the  wondrous  joys  can  tell, 
That  in  hearts  united  dwell. 

Recitative. 

First  Voice.         To  young  Victoria's  happy  fame 

Well  may  the  Arts  a  trophy  raise, 
Music  grows  sweeter  m  her  praise. 
And,  own'd  by  her,  with  rapture  speaks  hex 

name. 
To  touch  the  brave  Cowdenio's  heart. 

The  Graces  all  in  her  conspire  ; 
Love  arms  her  with  his  surest  dart, 
Apollo  with  his  lyre. 

Air. 

The  list'ning  Muses  all  around  her 

Think  'tis  Phcebus'  strain  they  hear ; 
And  Cupid,  drawing  near  to  wound  her, 
Drops  his  bow,  and  stands  to  hear. 

Recitative. 

Second  Voice.       While  crowds  of  rivals  with  despair 

Silent  admire,  or  vainly  court  the  Fair, 
Behold  the  happy  conquest  of  her  eyes, 
A  Hero  is  the  glorious  prize! 
In  courts,  in    camps,  thro'   distant   realms 
renown'd, 
Cowdenio  comes  .'—Victoria,  see, 
He  comes  with  British  honour  crown'd, 
Love  leads  his  eager  steps  to  thee. 


CHARLES  LAMB.  167 

Air. 

In  tender  sighs  he  silence  breaks, 
The  Fair  his  flame  approves, 

Consenting  blushes  warm  her  cheeks, 
She  smiles,  she  yields,  she  loves. 

Recitative. 

Fitst  Voice.         Now  Hymen  at  the  altar  stands, 

And  while  he  joins  their  faithful  hands, 

Behold !  by  ardent  vows  brought  down, 
Immortal  Concord,  heavenly  bright, 
Array'd  in  robes  of  purest  light. 

Descends,  th'  auspicious  rites  to  crown. 
Her  golden  haqj  the  goddess  brings; 

Its  magic  sound 
Commands  a  sudden  silence  all  around. 
And     strains     prophetic    thus    attune    the 
strings. 

Duetto. 
First  Voice.  The  Swain  his  Nymph  possessing, 

Second  Voice.       The  Nymph  her  swain  caressing. 
First  Ss^  Second.  Shall  still  improve  the  blessing, 

For  ever  kind  and  true. 
Both.  While  rolling  years  are  flying 

Love,  Hymen's  lamp  supplying, 

With  fuel  never  dying, 

Shall  still  the  flame  renew. 

To  so  great  a  master  as  yourself  I  have  no  need  to  suggest 

that  the  peculiar  tone  of  the  composition  demands  sprightli- 

ness,  occasionally  checked  by  tenderness,  as  in  the  second 

air,^ 

She  smiles, — she  yields, — she  loves. 

Again,  you  need  not  be  told  that  each  fifth  line  of  the  two 
first  recitatives  requires  a  crescendo. 

And  your  exquisite  taste  will  prevent  your  falling  into  the 
error  of  Purcell,  who  at  a  passage  similar  to  that  in  my  first 


i68        RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

Drops  his  bow,  and  stands  to  hear, 
directed  the  first  violin  thus  : — 

Here  the  first  violin  must  drop  his  bow. 

But,  besides  the  absurdity  of  disarming  his  principal  per- 
former of  so  necessary  an  adjunct  to  his  instrument,  in  such 
an  emphatic  part  of  the  composition  too,  which  must  have 
had  a  droll  effect  at  the  time,  all  such  minutiae  of  adaptation 
are  at  this  time  of  day  very  properly  exploded,  and  Jackson 
of  Exeter  very  fairly  ranks  them  under  the  head  of  puns. 

Should  you  succeed  in  the  setting  of  it,  we  propose  having 
it  performed  (we  have  one  very  tolerable  second  voice  here, 
and  Mr.  Holmes,  I  dare  say,  would  supply  the  minor  parts) 
at  the  Greyhound.  But  it  must  be  a  secret  to  the  young 
couple  till  we  can  get  the  band  in  readiness. 

Believe  me,  dear  Novello, 
Yours  truly, 

Enfield,  6  Nov.,  '29.  C.  Lamb. 

Peculiarly  Elian  is  the  humour  throughout  this  last 
letter.  The  advice  to  "  make  Pepusch  your  model,  or 
Blow;"  the  affected  "divisions"  or  "Duetto,"  "Reci- 
tative," "  Air,"  "  First  Voice,"  "  Second  Voice,"  "  First 
and  Second,"  "Both,"  &c. ;  the  antiquated  stiffness  of 
the  lines  themselves,  the  burlesque  "  Love  and  Hymen's 
triumph  sing  ;"  the  grotesque  stiltedness  of  "  the  brave 
Cowdenio's  heart,"  and  "  a  Hero  is  the  glorious  prize  ;" 
the  ludicrous  absurdity  of  hailing  a  peaceful  man  of  let- 
ters (who,  by  the  way,  adopted  as  his  crest  and  motto  an 
oak-branch  with  Algernon  Sydney's  words,  '■'  Placidam 
sub  libertate  quietem  ")  by  "  In  courts,  in  camps,  thro' 
distant  realms  renown'd,  Cowdenio  comes  ! "  ;  the  adula- 
tory pomp  of  styling  a  young  girl,  nowise  distinguished 
for  anything  but  homeliest  simplicity,  as  "the  Fair," 
"  the  Nymph,"  in  whom  "the  Graces  all  conspire  ;"  the 
droll,  illustrative  instructions,   suggesting  "  sprightliness, 


CHARLES  LAMB.  169 

occasionally  checked  by  tenderness,"  in  setting  lines  pur- 
posedly  dull  and  heavy  with  old-fashioned  mythological 
trappings  ;  the  grave  assumption  of  technicality  in  the  in- 
troduction of  the  word  "  crescendo  ; "  the  pretended 
citation  of  "  Purcell  "  and  "Jackson  of  Exeter;"  the 
comic  prohibition  as  to  the  too  literal  "  minutise  of  adap- 
tation "  in  such  passages  as  ^^  Drops  his  bow,  and  stands 
to  hear;"  the  pleasant  play  on  the  word  in  "the  minor 
parts  ;"  the  mock  earnestness  as  to  keeping  the  proposed 
performance  "  a  secret  to  the  young  couple  ;"  are  all  in 
the  very  spirit  of  fun  that  swayed  Elia  when  a  sportive 
vein  ran  through  his  Essays. 

The  next  letter  is  to  Charles  Cowden  Clarke  ;  though 
it  has  neither  address,  signature,  date,  nor  postmark  : — 

My  dear  three  C'S, — The  way  from  Southgate  to  Colney 
Hatch  thro'  the  unfrequentedest  Blackberry  paths  that  ever 
concealed  their  coy  bunches  from  a  truant  Citizen,  we  have 
accidentally  fallen  upon — the  giant  Tree  by  Cheshunt  we  have 
missed,  but  keep  your  chart  to  go  by,  unless  you  will  be  our 
conduct — at  present  I  am  disabled  from  further  flights  than 
just  to  skirt  round  Clay  Hill,  with  a  peep  at  the  fine  back 
woods,  by  strained  tendons,  got  by  skipping  a  skipping-rope 
at  53 — hei  m  hi  non  sum  qualis — but  do  you  know,  now  you 
come  to  talk  of  walks,  a  ramble  of  four  hours  or  so — there 
and  back — to  the  willow  and  lavender  plmtations  at  the 
south  corner  of  Northaw  Church  by  a  well  dedicated  to  Saint 
Claridge,  with  the  clumps  of  finest  moss  rising  hillock  fashion, 
which  I  counted  to  the  number  of  two  hundred  and  sixty,  and 
are  called  "  Claridge's  covers  " — the  tradition  being  that  that 
saint  entertained  so  many  angels  or  hermits  there,  upon  occa- 
sion of  blessing  the  waters  ?  The  legends  have  set  down  the 
fruits  spread  upon  that  occasion,  and  in  the  Black  Book  of  St. 
Alban's  some  are  named  which  are  not  supposed  to  have  been 
introduced  into  this  island  till  a  century  later.  But  waiving 
the  miracle,  a  sweeter  spot  is  not  in  ten  counties  round ; 


I70        RECOLLECTIONS  OE   WRITERS. 

you  are  knee  deep  in  clover,  that  is  to  say,  if  you  are  not 
above  a  middling  man's  height — from  this  paradise,  making  a 
day  of  it,  you  go  to  see  the  ruins  of  an  old  convent  at  March 
Hall,  where  some  of  the  painted  glass  is  yet  whole  and  fresh. 

If  you  do  not  know  this,  you  do  not  know  the  capabilities 
of  this  country,  you  may  be  said  to  be  a  stranger  to  Enfield. 
I  found  it  out  one  morning  in  October,  and  so  delighted  was 
I  that  I  did  not  get  home  before  dark,  well  a-paid. 

I  shall  long  to  show  you  the  clump  meadows,  as  they  are 
called ;  we  might  do  that,  without  reaching  March  Hall — 
when  the  days  are  longer,  we  might  take  both,  and  come 
home  by  Forest  Cross,  so  skirt  ver  Pennington  and  the 
cheerful  little  village  of  Churchley  to  Forty  Hill. 

But  these  are  dreams  till  summer  ;  meanwhile  we  should 
be  most  glad  to  see  you  for  a  lesser  excursion — say,  Sunday 
next,  you  and  another,  or  if  more,  best  on  a  weekday  with  a 
notice,  but  o'  Sundays,  as  far  as  a  leg  of  mutton  goes,  most 
welcome.  We  can  squeeze  out  a  bed.  Edmonton  coaches 
run  every  hour,  and  my  pen  has  run  out  its  quarter.  Heartily 
farewell. 

Charles  Lamb's  enjoyment  of  a  long  ramble,  and  his 
(usually)  excellent  powers  of  walking  are  here  denoted. 
He  was  so  proud  of  his  pedestrian  feats  and  indefatig- 
ability,  that  he  once  told  the  Cowden  Clarkes  a  story  of 
a  dog  possessed  by  a  pertinacious  determination  to  follow 
him  day  by  day  when  he  went  forth  to  wander  in  the 
Enfield  lanes  and  fields ;  until,  unendurably  teased  by 
the  pertinacity  of  this  obtrusive  animal,  he  determined,  to 
get  rid  of  him  by  fairly  tiring  him  out !  So  he  took  him 
a  circuit  of  many  miles,  including  several  of  the  loveliest 
spots  round  Enfield,  coming  at  last  to  a  by-road  with  an 
interminable  vista  of  up-hill  distance,  where  the  dog  turned 
tail,  gave  the  matter  up,  and  laid  down  beneath  a  hedge, 
panting,  exhausted,  thoroughly  worn  out  and  dead  beat ; 
while  his  defeater  walked  freshly  home,  smiling  and 
triumphant. 


CHARLES  LAMB.  171 

Knowing  Lamb's  fashion  of  twisting  facts  to  his  own 
humorous  view  of  them,  those  who  heard  the  story  well 
understood  that  it  might  easily  have  been  wryed  to 
represent  the  narrator's  real  potency  in  walking,  while 
serving  to  cover  his  equally  real  liking  for  animals  under 
the  semblance  of  vanquishing  a  dog  in  a  contested  foot- 
race. Far  more  probable  that  he  encouraged  its  volun- 
teered companionship,  amusing  his  imagination,  the  while 
by  picturing  the  wild  impossibility  of  any  human  creature 
attempting  to  tire  out  a  dog — of  all  animals  !  As  an  in- 
stance of  Charles  Lamb's  sympathy  with  dumb  beasts,  his 
two  friends  here  named  once  saw  him  get  up  from  table, 
while  they  were  dining  with  him  and  his  fisterat  Enfield, 
open  the  street-door,  and  give  admittance  to  a  stray 
donkey  into  the  front  strip  of  garden,  where  there  was  a 
glass-plot,  which  he  said  seemed  to  possess  more  attraction 
for  the  creature  than  the  short  turf  of  the  common  on 
Chase-side,  opposite  to  the  house  where  the  Lambs  then 
dwelt.  This  mixture  of  the  humorous  in  manner  and  the 
sympathetic  in  feeling  always  more  or  less  tinged  the 
sayings  and  the  doings  of  beloved  Charles  Lamb  ;  there 
was  a  constant  blending  of  the  overtly  whimsical  expres- 
sion or  act  with  betrayed  inner  kindliness  and  even 
pathos  of  sentiment.  Beneath  this  sudden  opening  of 
his  gate  to  a  stray  donkey  that  it  might  feast  on  his 
garden  grass  while  he  himself  ate  his  dinner,  possibly 
lurked  some  stung  sense  of  wanderers  unable  to  get  a 
nseal  they  hungered  for  when  others  revelled  in  plenty, — 
a  kind  of  pained  fancy  finding  vent  in  playful  deed  or 
speech,  that  frequently  might  be  traced  by  those  who 
enjoyed  his  society. 

The  next  letter  is  addressed  "  C.  C.  Clarke,  Esqre.,"  with 
the  postmark  (much  defaced}  "Edmonton,  Fe.  2,  1829:" — 


172        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WELTERS. 

Dear  Cowden, — Your  books  are  as  the  gushing  of  streams 
in  a  desert.  By  the  way,  you  have  sent  no  autobiographies. 
Your  letter  seems  to  imply  you  had.  Nor  do  I  want  any. 
Cowden,  they  are  of  the  books  which  I  give  away.  What 
damn'd  Unitarian  skewer-soul'd  things  the  general  biogra- 
phies turn  out.  Rank  and  Talent  you  shall  have  when 
Mrs.  May  has  done  with  'em.  Mary  likes  Mrs.  Bedinfield 
much.  For  me  I  read  nothing  but  Astrea— it  has  turn'd  my 
brain — I  go  about  with  a  switch  turn'd  up  at  the  end  for  a 
crook  ;  and  Lambs  being  too  old,  the  butcher  tells  me,  my 
cat  follows  me  in  a  green  ribband.  Becky  and  her  cousin 
are  getting  pastoral  dresses,  and  then  we  shall  all  four  go 
about  Arcadizing.  O  cruel  Shepherdess  !  Inconstant  yet 
fair,  and  more  inconstant  for  being  fair  !  Her  gold  ringlets 
fell  in  a  disord^  superior  to  order  ! 

Come  and  join  us. 

I  am  called  the  Black  Shepherd — you  shall  be  Cowden 
with  the  Tuft. 

Prosaically,  we  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  both, — or  any 
two  of  you — drop  in  by  surprise  some  Saturday  night. 

This  must  go  off. 

Loves  to  Vittoria. 

C.  L. 

The  book  he  refers  to  as  "  Astrea  "  was  one  of  those 
tall  folio  romances  of  the  Sir  Philip  Sidney  or  Mdme.  de 
Scudery  order,  inspiring  him  with  the  amusing  rhapsody 
that  follows  its  mention ;  the  ingeniously  equivocal 
'■'■  Lambs  being  too  old;"  the  familiar  mingling  of  "Becky" 
(their  maid)  "  and  her  cousin  "  with  himself  and  sister 
in  "  pastoral  dresses,"  to  "  go  about  Arcadizing ; "  the 
abrupt  bursting  forth  into  the  Philip-Sidneyan  style  of 
antithetical  rapturizing  and  euphuism ;  the  invented 
Arcadian  titles  of  "  the  Black  Shepherd  "  and  "  Cowden 
with  the  Tuft  " — are  all  in  the  tone  of  mad-cap  spirits 
which  were  occasionally  Lamb's.  The  latter  name 
("  Cowden  with  the   Tuft ")    slyly  implies   the   smooth 


CHARLES  LAMB.  173 

baldness  with  scant  curly  hair  distinguishing  the  head  o? 
the  friend  addressed,  and  which  seemed  to  strike  Charles 
Lamb  so  forcibly,  that  one  evening,  after  gazing  at  it  for 
some  time,  he  suddenly  broke  forth  with  the  exclamation, 
" '  Gad,  Clarke  !  what  whiskers  you  have  behind  your 
head !" 

He  was  fond  of  trying  the  dispositions  of  those  with 
whom  he  associated  by  an  odd  speech  such  as  this ;  and 
if  they  stood  the  test  pleasantly,  and  took  it  in  good  part, 
he  liked  them  the  better  ever  after.  One  time  that  the 
Novellos  and  Cowden  Clarkes  went  down  to  see  the 
Lambs  at  Enfield,  and  he  was  standing  by  his  book- 
shelves, talking  with  them  in  his  usual  delightful,  cordia 
way,  showing  them  some  precious  volume  lately  added 
to  his  store,  a  neighbour  chancing  to  come  in  to  remind 
Charles  Lamb  of  an  appointed  ramble,  he  excused  him- 
self by  saying,  "You  see  I  have  some  troublesome 
people  just  come  down  from  town,  and  I  must  stay  and  en- 
tertain them;  so  we'll  take  our  walk  together  to-irorrow." 
Another  time,  when  the  Cowden  Clarkes  were  staying  a 
few  days  at  Enfield  with  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister, 
they,  having  accepted  an  invitation  to  spend  the  evening 
and  have  a  game  of  whist  at  a  lady-schoohiiistress's  house 
there,  took  their  guests  with  them.  Charles  Lamb,  giving 
his  arm  to  "  Victoria,"  left  her  husband  to  escort  Mary 
Lamb,  who  walked  rather  more  slowly  than  her  brother. 
On  arriving  first  at  the  house  of  the  somewhat  prim  and 
formal  hostess,  Charles  Lamb,  bringing  his  young  visitor 

into  the  room,   introduced  her    by  saying,  "  Mrs. , 

I've  brought  you  the  wife  of  the  man  who  mortally  hates 
your  husband  ; "  and  when  the  lady  replied  by  a  polite 
inquiry  after  "  Miss  Lamb,"  hoping  she  was  quite  well, 
Charles  Lamb  said,  "She  has  a  terrible  fit  o'  toothache, 


174        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

and  was  obliged  to  stay  at  home  this  evening  ;  so  Mr. 
Cowden  Clarke  remained  there  to  keep  her  company." 
Then,  the  lingerers  entering,  he  went  on  to  say,  "Mrs. 
Cowden  Clarke  has  been  telling  me,  as  we  came  along, 
that  she  hopes  you  have  sprats  for  supper  this  evening." 
The  bewildered  glance  of  the  lady  of  the  house  at  Mary 
Lamb  and  her  walking-companion,  her  poHtely  stifled 
dismay  at  the  mention  of  so  vulgar  a  dish,  contrasted 
with  Victoria's  smile  of  enjoyment  at  his  whimsical  words, 
were  precisely  the  kind  of  things  that  Charles  Lamb  liked 
and  chuckled  over.  On  another  occasion  he  was 
charmed  by  the  equanimity  and  even  gratification  with 
which  the  same  guests  and  Miss  Fanny  Kelly  (the  skilled 
actress  whose  combined  artistic  and  feminine  attractions 
inspired  him  with  the  beautiful  sonnet  beginning 

You  are  not,  Kelly,  of  the  common  strain, 

and  whose  performance  of  "  The  Blind  Boy  "  caused  him 
to  address  her  in  that  other  sonnet  beginning 

Rare  artist  !  who  with  half  thy  tools  or  none 
Canst  execute  with  ease  thy  curious  art, 
And  press  thy  powerful'st  meanings  on  the  heart 

Unaided  by  the  eye,  expression's  tiirone  !) 

found  themselves  one  sunny  day,  after  a  long  walk 
through  the  green  Enfield  meadows,  seated  with  Charles 
Lamb  and  his  sister  on  a  rustic  bench  in  the  shade, 
outside  a  small  roadside  inn,  quaffing  draughts  of  his 
favourite  porter  with  him  from  the  unsophisticated 
pewter,  supremely  indifferent  to  the  strangeness  of  the 
situation  ;  nay,  heartily  enjoying  it  luith  him.  The  um- 
brageous elm,  the  water-trough,  the  dip  in  the  road  where 
there  was  a  ford  and  foot  bridge,  the  rough  wooden  table 
at  which  the  little  party  were  seated,  the  pleasant  voices 


CHARLES  LAMB.  175 

of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  and  Fanny  Kelly, — all  are 
vividly  present  to  the  imagination  of  her  wlio  now  writes 
these  few  memorial  lines,  inadequately  describing  the 
ineffaceable  impression  of  that  happy  time,  when  Lamb 
so  cordially  delighted  in  the  responsive  ease  and  enjoy- 
ment of  his  surrounders. 

The  last  letter  is  addressed  "V.  Novello,  Esqre.,"  with 
post-mark  "  No.  8,  1830  :" — 

Tears  are  for  lighter  griefs.     Man  weeps  the  doom 

That  seals  a  single  victim  to  the  tomb. 

But  when  Death  riots,  when  with  whelming  sway 

Destruction  sweeps  a  family  away  ; 

When  Infancy  and  Youth,  a  huddled  mass, 

All  in  an  instant  to  obHvion  pass. 

And  Parents'  hopes  are  crush'd  ;   what  lamentation 

Can  reach  the  depth  of  such  a  desolation  ? 

Look  upward.  Feeble  Ones  !  look  up,  and  trust 

That  He,  who  lays  this  mortal  frame  in  dust, 

Still  hath  the  immortal  Spirit  in  His  keeping. 

In  Jesus'  sight  they  are  not  dead,  '  ut  sleeping. 

Dear  N.,  will  these  lines  do?  I  despair  of  better.  Poor 
Mary  is  in  a  deplorable  state  here  at  Enfield. 

Love  to  all, 

C.  Lamb. 

These  tenderly  pathetic  elegiac  lines  were  written  at 
the  request  of  Vincent  Novello,  in  memory  of  four  sons 
and  two  daughters  of  John  and  Ann  Rigg,  of  York. 
All  six — respectively  aged  19,  18,  17,  16,  7,  and  6 — were 
drowned  at  once  by  their  boat  being  run  down  on  the 
river  Ouse,  near  York,  August  19,  1830.  The  unhappy 
surviving  parents  had  begged  to  have  hues  for  an  epitaph 
from  the  best  poetical  hand  ;  but,  owing  to  some  local 
authority's  interference,  another  than  Charles  Lamb's 
verse  v/as  ultimately  placed  on  the  monument  raised  to 
the  lost  children. 


176        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


MARY  LAMB 

Those  belonging  to  a  great  man — his  immediate  family 
connexions,  who  are,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  himself — are 
always  reflectively  interesting  to  his  admirers.  His  female 
relatives  especially,  who  form  so  integral  a  portion  of  his 
home  existence,  possess  this  interest,  perhaps,  beyond  all 
others.  In  a  more  than  usual  degree  was  Charles  Lamb's 
sister,  Mary  Lamb,  blended  with  his  life,  with  himself — 
consociated  as  she  was  with  his  every  act,  word,  and 
thought,  through  his  own  noble  act  of  self-consecration  to 
her.  The  solemn  story  of  this  admirable  brother-and- 
sister  couple  is  told  in  all  its  pathetic  circumstances  by 
Thomas  Noon  Talfourd,  in  his  "  Final  Memorials  of 
Charles  Lamb ;"  and  there  Miss  Lamb  is  pictured  with 
esteeming  eloquence  of  description.  To  that  account  of 
her  are  here  appended  a  few  remembered  touches,  by  one 
who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  personal  communion  with 
"  the  Lambs,"  as  they  were  afiectionately  styled  by  those 
who  knew  them  in  what  Wordsworth  calls  their  beautiful 
"  dual  loneliness"  of  life  together.  So  simple,  so  holy  a 
sobriety  was  there  in  all  their  ways,  that  to  the  unper- 
ceiving  eyes  of  youth  they  scarce  appeared  so  great  as 
they  really  were  ;  and  yet  less  did  any  idea  of  the  pro- 
foundly tragic  secret  attaching  to  their  early  years  pre- 
sent itself  to  the  imagination  of  her  who  knew  them  as 


MARY  LAMB.  177 

'  Mr.  and  Miss  Lamb,"  prized  friends  of  her  father  and 
mother,  taking  kindly  notice  of  a  young  girl  for  her 
parents'  sake. 

Miss  Lamb  bore  a  strong  personal  resemblance  to  her 
brother ;  being  in  stature  under  middle  height,  possessing 
well-cut  features,  and  a  countenance  of  singular  sweetness, 
with  intelligence.  Her  brown  eyes  were  soft,  yet  penetrat- 
ing ;  her  nose  and  mouth  very  shapely  ;  while  the  general 
expression  was  mildness  itself.  She  had  a  speaking-voice, 
gentle  and  persuasive  ;  and  her  smile  was  her  brother's 
own — winning  in  the  extreme.  There  was  a  certain  catch, 
or  emotional  breathingness,  in  her  utterance,  which  gave 
an  inexpressible  charm  to  her  reading  of  poetry,  and 
which  lent  a  captivating  earnestness  to  her  mode  of 
speech  when  addressing  those  she  liked.  This  slight 
check,  with  its  yearning,  eager  effect  in  her  voice,  had 
something  softenedly  akin  to  her  brother  Charles's  impedi- 
ment of  articulation :  in  him  it  scarcely  amounted  to  a 
stammer  ;  in  her  it  merely  imparted  additional  stress  to  the 
fine-sensed  suggestions  she  made  to  those  whom  she  coun- 
selled or  consoled.  She  had  a  mind  at  once  nobly-toned 
and  practical,  making  her  ever  a  chosen  source  of  confi- 
dence among  her  friends,  who  turned  to  her  for  consola- 
tion, confirmation,  and  advice,  in  matters  of  nicest 
moment,  always  secure  of  deriving  from  her  both  aid 
and  solace.  Her  manner  was  easy,  almost  homely,  so 
quiet,  unaffected,  and  perfectly  unpretending  was  it. 
Beneath  the  sparing  talk  and  retired  carriage,  few  casual 
observers  would  have  suspected  the  ample  information 
and  large  intelligence  that  lay  comprised  there.  She  was 
oftener  a  Hstener  than  a  speaker.  In  the  modest- 
havioured  woman  simply  sitting  there,  taking  small  share 
in  general  conversation,  few  who  did  not  know  her  would 

N 


178        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

have  imagined  the  accomplished  classical  scholar,  the 
excellent  understanding,  the  altogether  rarely-gifted  being, 
morally  and  mentally,  that  Mary  Lamb  was.  Her  apparel 
was  always  of  the  plainest  kind  ;  a  black  stuff  or  silk 
gown,  made  and  worn  in  the  simplest  fashion.  She  took 
snuff  liberally — a  habit  that  had  evidently  grown  out  of 
her  propensity  to  sympathize  with  and  share  all  her 
brother's  tastes ;  and  it  certainly  had  the  effect  of  en- 
hancing her  likeness  to  him.  She  had  a  small,  white,  and 
delicately-formed  hand  ;  and  as  it  hovered  above  the 
tortoise-shell  box  containing  the  powder  so  strongly 
approved  by  them  both,  in  search  of  the  stimulating 
pinch,  the  act  seemed  yet  another  link  of  association 
between  the  brother  and  sister,  when  hanging  together 
over  their  favourite  books  and  studies. 

As  may  be  gathered  from  the  books  which  Miss  Lamb 
wrote,  in  conjunction  with  her  brother—"  Poetry  for 
Cnildren,"  *'  Tales  from  Shakespeare,"  and  "  Mrs.  Leices- 
ter's School," — she  had  a  most  tender  sympathy  with  the 
young.  She  was  encouraging  and  affectionate  towards 
them,  and  won  them  to  regard  her  with  a  familiarity  and 
fondness  rarely  felt  by  them  for  grown  people  who  are 
not  their  relations.  She  entered  into  their  juvenile  ideas 
with  a  tact  and  skill  quite  surprising.  She  threw  herself 
so  entirely  into  their  way  of  thinking,  and  contrived  to 
take  an  estimai  of  things  so  completely  from  their  point 
of  view,  that  she  made  them  rejoice  to  have  her  fcr 
their  co-mate  in  affairs  that  interested  them.  While  thus 
lending  herself  to  their  notions,  she,  with  a  judiciousness 
peculiar  to  her,  imbued  her  words  with  the  wisdom  and 
experience  that  belonged  to  her  maturer  years  \  so  that, 
while  she  seemed  but  the  listening,  concurring  friend,  she 
was  also  the  helping,  guiding  friend.     Her  valuable  moni- 


MARY  LAMB.  179 

tions  never  took  the  form  of  reproof,  but  were  always 
dropped  in  with  the  air  of  agreed  propositions,  as  if  they 
grew  out  of  the  subject  in  question,  and  presented  them- 
selves as  matters  of  course  to  both  her  young  companions 
and  herself. 

One  of  these  instances  resulted  from  the  kind  per- 
mission which  Mary  Lamb  gave  to  the  young  girl  above 
alluded  to — Victoria  Novello — that  she  should  come  to 
her  on  certain  mornings,  when  Miss  Lamb  promised  to 
hear  her  repeat  her  Latin  gram.mar,  and  hear  her  read 
poetry  with  the  due  musically-rhythmical  intonation.  Even 
now  the  breathing  murmur  of  the  voice  in  which  Mary 
Lamb  gave  low  but  melodious  utterance  to  those  opening 
lines  of  the  "  Paradise  Lost," — 

"  Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe," — 

sounding  full  and  rounded  and  harmonious,  though  so 
subdued  in  tone,  rings  clear  and  distinct  in  the  memory 
of  her  who  heard  the  reader.  The  echo  of  that  gentle 
voice  vibrates  through  the  lapse  of  many  a  revolving  year, 
true  and  unbroken,  in  the  heart  where  the  low-breathed, 
sound  first  awoke  response ;  teaching,  together  with  the 
fine  appreciation  of  verse  music,  the  finer  love  of  intellect 
conjoined  with  goodness  and  kindness.  The  instance  of 
wise  precept  couched  in  playful  speech  pertained  to  the 
Latin  lessons.  One  morning,  just  as  Victoria  was  about 
to  repeat  her  allotted  task,  in  rushed  a  young  boy,  who, 
like  herself  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  Miss  Lamb's  instruc- 
tion in  the  Latin  language.  His  mode  of  entrance — 
hasty  and  abrupt — sufficiently  denoted  his  eagerness  to 
have  his  lesson  heard  at  once  and  done  with,  that  he 

N    2 


i8o        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

might  be  gone  Again ;  accordingly,  Miss  Lamb,  asking 
Victoria  to  give  up  her  turn,  desired  the  youth — HazUtt's 
son — to  repeat  his  pages  of  grammar  first.  Off  he  set ; 
rattled  through  the  first  conjugation  post-haste  ;  darted 
through  the  second  without  drawing  breath ;  and  so  on, 
right  through  in  no  time.  The  rapidity,  the  volubility, 
the  triumphant  slap-dash  of  the  feat  perfectly  dazzled  the 
imagination  of  poor  Victoria,  who  stood  admiring  by,  an 
amazed  witness  of  the  boy's  proficiency.  She  herself, — a 
quiet,  plodding  little  girl  — had  only  by  dint  of  diligent 
study,  and  patient,  persevering  poring,  been  able  to 
achieve  a  slow  learning,  and  as  slow  a  repetition  of  her 
lessons.  This  brilliant,  oiT-hand  method  of  despatching 
the  Latin  grammar  was  a  glory  she  had  never  dreamed  of. 
Her  ambition  was  fired  :  and  the  next  time  she  presented 
herself,  book  in  hand,  before  Miss  Lamb,  she  had  no 
sooner  delivered  it  into  her  hearer's,  than  she  attempted 
to  scour  through  her  verb  at  the  same  rattling  pace  which 
had  so  excited  her  emulative  admiration.  Scarce  a 
moment,  and  her  stumbling  scamper  was  checked. 
"  Stay,  stay !  how's  this  ?  What  are  you  about,  little 
Vicky  ?  "  asked  the  laughing  voice  of  Mary  Lamb.  "  Oh, 
I  see.  Well,  go  on  :  but  gently,  gently :  no  need  of 
hurry."  She  heard  her  to  an  end,  and  then  said,  "I 
see  what  we  have  been  doing — trying  to  be  as  quick  and 
clever  as  William,  fancying  it  vastly  grand  to  get  on  at 
a  great  rate  as  he  docs.  But  there's  this  diff"erence : 
it's  natural  in  him,  while  it's  imitation  in  you.  Now, 
far  better  go  on  in  your  old,  staid  way — which  is  your 
own  way — than  try  to  take  up  a  way  that  may  be- 
come him  but  can  never  become  you,  even  were  you  to 
succeed    in    acquiring   it.      We'll   each   of  us   keep    to 


MARY  LAMB.  i8i 

our  own  natural  ways,  and  then  we  shall  be  sure  to  do  our 
best" 

On  one  of  these  occasions  of  the  Latin  lessons  in 
Russell  Street,  Covent  Garden,  where  Mr.  and  Miss 
Lamb  then  lived,  Victoria  saw  a  lady  come  in,  who 
appeared  to  her  strikingly  intellectual-looking,  and  still 
young;  she  was  surprised,  therefore,  to  hear  the  lady  say, 
in  the  course  of  conversation,  "  Oh,  as  for  me,  my  dear 
Miss  Lamb,  I'm  nothing  now  but  a  stocking-mending 
old  woman."  When  the  lady's  visit  came  to  an  end,  and 
she  was  gone,  Mary  Lamb  took  occasion  to  t^U  Victoria 
who  she  was,  and  to  explain  her  curious  speech.  The 
lady  was  no  other  than  Miss  Kelly  ;  and  Mary  Lamb, 
while  describing  to  the  young  girl  the  eminent  merits 
of  the  admirable  actress,  showed  her  how  a  tempo- 
rary depression  of  spirits  in  an  artistic  nature  some- 
times takes  refuge  in  a  half-playful,  half-bitter  irony  of 
speech. 

At  the  house  in  Russell  Street  Victoria  met  Emma 
Isola;  and  among  her  pleasantest  juvenile  recollections 
is  the  way  in  which  Mary  Lamb  thought  for  the  natural 
pleasure  the  two  young  girls  took  in  each  other's  society, 
by  bringing  them  together ;  and  when,  upon  one  occasion, 
there  was  a  large  company  assembled.  Miss  Lamb 
allowed  Emma  and  Victoria  to  go  together  into  a  room 
by  themselves,  if  they  preferred  their  mutual  chat  to  the 
conversation  of  the  elder  people.  In  the  not  too  spacious 
London  lodging,  Mary  Lamb  let  them  go  into  her  own 
bedroom  to  have  their  girlish  talk  out,  rather  than  let 
them  feel  restrained.  Most,  most  kind,  too,  was  the 
meeting  she  planned  for  them,  when  Euuua  was  about  to 
repair  to  school,  at  the  pleasant  village  of  Dulwich.  Miss 


1 82        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Lamb  made  a  charming  little  dinner  :  a  dinner  for  three, 
herself  and  the  two  girls, — a  dinner  most  toothsome  to 
young  feminine  appetite ;  roast  fowls  and  a  custard- 
pudding.  Savoury  is  the  recollection  of  those  embrowned 
and  engravied  birds  I  sweet  the  remembrance  of  that 
creamy  cate  !  but  pleasant,  above  all,  is  the  memory 
of  the  cordial  voice  which  said,  in  a  way  to  put  the 
little  party  at  its  fullest  ease,  "  Now,  remember,  we  all 
piciv  our  bones.  It  isn't  considered  vulgar  here  to  pick 
bones." 

Once,  when  some  visitors  chanced  to  drop  in  unex- 
pectedly upon  her  and  her  brother,  just  as  they  were 
going  to  sit  down  to  their  plain  dinner  of  a  bit  of  roast 
mutton,  with  her  usual  frank  hospitality  she  pressed  them 
to  stay  and  partake,  cutting  up  the  small  joint  into  five 
equal  portions,  and  saying  in  her  simple,  easy  way,  so 
truly  her  own,  "  There's  a  chop  a-piece  for  us,  and  we 
can  make  up  with  bread  and  cheese  if  we  want  more." 
With  such  a  woman  to  carve  for  you  and  eat  with  you, 
neck  of  mutton  was  better  than  venison,  while  bread  and 
cneese  more  than  replaced  varied  courses  of  richest  or 
daintiest  dishes. 

Mary  Lamb,  ever  thoughtful  to  procure  a  pleasure  for 
young  people,  finding  that  one  of  her  and  her  brothers 
acquaintances — Howard  Payne — was  going  to  France, 
she  requested  him,  on  his  way  to  Paris,  to  call  at 
Boulogne  and  see  Victoria  Novello,  who  had  been  placed 
by  her  parents  in  a  family  there  for  a  time  to  learn  the 
language.  Knowing  how  welcome  a  visit  from  any  one 
who  had  lately  seen  her  friends  in  England  would  be  to 
the  young  girl.  Miss  Lamb  urged  Howard  Payne  not 
to   omit   this ;   her   brother   Charles   seconding  her  by 


MARY  LAMB,  183 

adding,  in  his  usual  sportive  style,  "  Do ;  you  needn't 
be  afraid  of  Miss  Novello,  she  speaks  only  a  little  coast 
French." 

At  "the  Lambs'  house,"  Victoria  several  times  saw 
Colonel  PhilUps  (the  man  who  shot  the  savage  that  killed 
Captain  Cook),  and  heard  him  describe  IVIadame  de 
Stael's  manner  in  society,  saying  that  he  remembered  she 
had  a  habit  while  she  discoursed  of  taking  a  scrap  of 
paper  and  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  snipping  it  to  bits,  as 
an  employment  for  her  fingers;  that  once  he  observed 
her  to  be  at  a  loss  for  this  her  usual  mechanical  resource, 
and  he  quietly  placed  near  her  the  back  of  a  letter  from 
his  pocket:  afterwards  she  earnestly  thanked  him  for  this 
timely  supply  of  the  means  she  desired  as  a  needful  aid 
to  thought  and  speech.  He  also  mentioned  his  reminis- 
cence of  Gibbon  the  historian,  and  related  the  way  in 
which  the  great  man  held  a  pinch  of  snuff  between  his 
finger  and  thumb  while  he  recounted  an  anecdote, 
invariably  dropping  the  pinch  at  the  point  of  the  story. 
The  colonel  once  spoke  of  Garrick,  telling  how,  as  a  raw 
youth,  coming  to  town,  he  had  determined  to  go  and  see 
the  great  actor,  and  how,  being  but  slenderly  provided 
in  pocket,  he  had  pawned  one  of  his  shirts  ("and  shirts 
were  of  value  in  those  days,  with  their  fine  linen  and 
ruffles,"  he  said),  to  enable  him  to  pay  his  entrance  at  the 
theatre.  Miss  Lamb  being  referred  to,  and  asked  if  she 
remembered  Garrick,  replied,  in  her  simple- speeched  way, 
"  I  saw  him  once,  but  I  was  too  young  to  understand 
much  about  his  acting.  I  only  know  I  thought  it  was 
mighty  fine." 

There  was  a  certain  old-world  fashion  in  Mary  Lamb's 
diction  which  gave  it  a  most  natural  and  quaintly  pleasant 


1 84       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

effect,  and  which  heightened  rather  than  detracted  from 
the  more  heartfelt  or  important  things  she  uttered.  She 
had  a  way  of  repeating  her  brother's  words  assentingly 
when  he  spoke  to  her.  He  once  said  (with  his  pecuUar 
mode  of  tenderness,  beneath  blunt,  abrupt  speech)r 
"You  must  die  first,  Mary."  She  nodded,  with  hei 
little  quiet  nod  and  sweet  smile,  "  Yes,  I  must  die  first, 
Charles." 

At  another  time,  he  said  in  his  whimsical  way,  plucking 
out  the  words  in  gasps,  as  it  were,  between  the  smiles 
with  which  he  looked  at  her,  "  I  call  my  sister  '  Moll,' 
before  the  servants;  '  Mary,'  in  presence  of  friends;  and 
*  Maria,'  when  I  am  alone  with  her." 

When  the  inimitable  comic  actor  Munden  took  his 
farewell  of  the  stage.  Miss  Lamb  and  her  brother  failed 
not  to  attend  the  last  appearance  of  their  favourite,  and 
it  was  upon  this  occasion  that  Mary  made  that  admirable 
pun,  which  has  sometimes  been  attributed  to  Charles — 
"  Sic  transit  gloria  Ahinden  !  "  During  the  few  final  per- 
formances of  the  veteran  comedian,  Victoria  was  taken 
by  her  father  and  mother  to  see  him,  when  he  played  Old 
Dornton  in  "The  Road  to  Ruin,''  and  Crack  in  "The 
Turnpike  Gate."  Miss  Tamb,  hearing  of  the  promised 
treat,  with  her  usual  kindly  thought  and  wisdom,  urged 
the  young  girl  to  give  her  utmost  attention  to  the  actor's 
style.  "  When  you  are  an  old  woman  like  me,  people 
will  ask  you  about  Munden's  acting,  as  they  now  ask  me 
about  Garrick's,  so  take  particular  care  to  observe  all  he 
does,  and  /loui  he  does  it."  Owing  to  this  considerate 
reminder,  the  very  look,  the  very  gesture,  the  whole 
bearing  of  Munden — first  in  the  pathetic  character  of  the 
gentleman- father,  next  in  the  farce-character  of  the  village 


MAJiV  LAMB.  185 

cobbler— remain  impressed  upon  the  brain  of  her  who 
witnessed  them  as  if  beheld  but  yesterday.  The  tipsy 
lunge  with  which  he  rolled  up  to  the  table  whereon  stood 
that  tempting  brown  jug  ;  the  leer  of  mingled  slyness  and 
attempted  unconcernedness  with  which  he  slid  out  his 
furtive  thought  to  the  audience — "  Some  gentleman  has 
left  his  ale  !  "  then,  with  an  unctuous  smack  of  his  lips, 
jovial  and  anticipative,  adding,  "  And  some  other  gentle- 
man will  drink  it !  "—all  stand  present  to  fancy,  vivid  and 
unforgotten. 

Still  more  valuable  was  Mary  I^amb's  kindness  at  a 
period  wlien  she  thought  she  perceived  symptoms  of  an 
unexplained  dejection  in  her  young  friend.  How  gentle 
was  her  sedate  mode  of  reasoning  the  matter,  after 
delicately  touching  upon  the  subject,  and  endeavouring 
to  draw  forth  its  avowal  !  more  as  if  mutually  discussing 
and  consulting  than  as  if  questioning,  she  endeavoured  to 
ascertain  whether  uncertainties  or  scruples  of  faith  had 
arisen  in  the  young  girl's  mind,  and  had  caused  her  pre- 
occupied, abstracted  manner.  If  it  were  any  such  source 
of  disturbance,  how  wisely  and  feelingly  she  suggested 
reading,  reflecting,  weighing;  if  but  a  less  deeply-seated 
depression,  how  sensibly  she  advised  adopting  some 
object  to  rouse  energy  and  interest !  She  pointed  out 
the  efficacy  of  studying  a  language  (she  herself  at 
upwards  of  fifty  years  of  age  began  the  acquirement  of 
French  and  Italian)  as  a  remedial  measure  \  and  advised 
Victoria  to  devote  herself  to  a  younger  brother  she  had, 
in  the  same  way  that  she  had  attended  to  her  own  brother 
Charles  in  his  infancy,  as  the  wholesomest  and  surest 
means  of  all  for  cure. 

For  the  way  in  which  Mary  Lamb  could  minister  to  a 


i86        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

stricken  mind,  witness  a  letter  of  hers  addressed  to  a 
friend — a  mother  into  whose  home  death  had  for  the 
first  time  come,  taking  away  her  last-born  child  of  barely 
two  months  old.  This  letter,  sacredly  kept  in  the  family 
of  her  to  whom  it  was  written,  is  here  given  to  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  Miss  Lamb  wrote  few  letters,  and  fewer 
still  have  been  published.  But  the  rareness  of  her  effusions 
enhance  their  intrinsic  worth,  and  render  it  doubly  impera- 
tive that  their  gentle  beauty  of  sense  and  wisdom  should 
not  be  withheld  from  general  knowledge.  The  letter  bears 
date  merely  "  Monday,  Newington,"  and  the  post-mark  is 
undecipherable;  but  it  was  written  in  the  spring  of  1820, 
and  was  directed  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Novello  : — 

My  dear  Friend, — Since  we  heard  of  your  sad  sorrow, 
you  have  been  perpetually  in  our  thoughts  ;  therefore,  you 
may  well  imagine  how  welcome  your  kind  remembrance  of 
us  must  be.  I  know  not  how  enough  to  thank  you  for  it. 
You  bid  me  write  you  a  long  letter  ;  but  my  mind  is  so  pos- 
sessed with  the  idea  that  you  must  be  occupied  with  one 
only  thought,  that  all  trivial  matters  seem  iirsperdnent.  I 
have  just  been  reading  again  Mr.  Hunt's  delicious  Essay,* 
which  I  am  sure  must  have  come  so  home  to  your  hearts,  I 
shall  always  love  him  for  it.  I  feel  that  it  is  all  that  one  can 
think,  but  which  none  but  he  could  have  done  so  prettily. 
May  he  lose  the  memory  of  his  own  babies  in  seeing  them  all 
grow  old  around  him  !  Together  with  the  recollection  of  your 
dear  baby,  the  image  of  a  litde  sister  I  once  had  comes  as 
fresh  into  my  mind  as  if  I  had  seen  her  as  lately.  A  little 
cap  with  white  satin  ribbon,  grown  yellow  with  long  keeping, 

*  Entitled  "  Deaths  of  Little  Children,"  which  appeared  in 
the  Jndicater  for  5th  April,  1820,  and  which  had  its 
origin  in  the  sorrowful  event  that  occasioned  Miss  Lamb's 
letter. 


MARY  LAMB.  187 

and  a  lock  of  light  hair,  were  the  only  relics  left  of  her.  The 
sight  of  them  always  brought  her  pretty,  fair  face  to  my  view, 
that  to  this  day  I  seem  to  have  a  perfect  recollection  of  her 
features.  I  long  to  see  you,  and  I  hope  to  do  so  on  Tuesday 
or  Wednesday  in  next  week.  Percy  Street  !  ^  I  love  to 
write  the  word:  what  comfortable  ideas  it  brings  with  it !  We 
have  been  pleasing  ourselves  ever  since  we  heard  this  piece 
of  unexpected  good  news  with  the  anticipation  of  frequent 
drop-in  visits,  and  all  the  social  comfort  of  what  seems  almost 
next-door  neighbourhood. 

Our  solitary  confinement  has  answered  its  purpose  even 
better  than  I  expected.  It  is  so  many  years  since  I  have 
been  out  of  town  in  the  Spring,  that  I  scarceh'  knew  of  the 
existence  of  such  a  season.  I  see  every  day  some  new  flower 
peeping  out  of  the  ground,  and  watch  its  growth  ;  so  that  I 
have  a  sort  of  an  intimate  iriendship  with  each.  I  know  the 
effect  of  every  change  of  weather  upon  them — have  learned 
all  their  names,  the  duration  of  their  lives,  and  the  whole 
progress  of  their  domestic  economy.  My  landlady,  a  nice, 
active  old  soul  that  wants  but  one  year  of  eighty,  and  her 
daughter,  a  rather  aged  young  gentlewoman,  are  the  only 
labourers  in  a  pretty  large  garden  ;  for  it  is  a  double  house, 
and  two  long  strips  of  ground  are  laid  into  one,  well  stored 
with  fruit-trees,  wliich  will  be  in  full  blossom  the  week  after 
I  am  gone,  and  flowers,  as  many  as  can  be  crammed  in,  of 
all  sorts  and  kinds.  But  flowers  are  flowers  still ;  and  I 
must  confess  I  would  rather  live  in  Russell  Street  all  my  life, 
and  never  set  my  foot  but  on  the  London  pavement,  than  be 
doomed  always  to  enjoy  the  silent  pleasures  I  now  do.  We 
go  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock.  Late  hours  are  life-shortening 
things  ;  but  I  would  rather  run  all  risks,  and  sit  every  night 
— at  some  places  I  could  name — wishing  in  vain  at  eleven 
o'clock  for  the  entrance  of  the  supper  tray,  than  be  always 
up  and  alive  at  eight  o'clock  breakfast  as  I  am  here.    We  have 

2  Whither  Miss  Lamb's  friend  was  about  to  remove  hel 
residence  from  the  farther  (west)  end  of  Oxford  Street. 


1 88        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

a.  scheme  to  reconcile  these  things.  We  have  an  offer  of  a 
very  low-rented  lodging  a  mile  nearer  town  than  this.  Our 
notion  is,  to  divide  our  time,  in  alternate  weeks,  between 
quiet  rest  and  dear  London  weariness.  We  give  an  answer 
to-morrow  ;  but  what  that  will  be,  at  this  present  writing,  I 
am  unable  to  say.  In  the  present  state  of  our  undecided 
opinion,  a  very  heavy  rain  that  is  now  falling  may  turn  the 
scale.  "  Dear  rain,  do  go  away,"  and  let  us  have  a  fine 
cheerful  sunset  to  argue  the  matter  fairly  in.  My  brother 
walked  seventeen  miles  yesterday  before  dinner.  And  not- 
withstanding his  long  walk  to  and  from  the  office,  we  walk 
every  evening  ;  but  I  by  no  means  perform  in  this  way  so 
well  as  I  used  to  do.  A  twelve-mile  walk  one  hot  Sunday 
morning  made  my  feet  blister,  and  they  are  hardly  well  now. 
Charles  is  not  yet  come  home ;  but  he  bid  me,  with  many 
thanks,  to  present  his  /cn^e  to  you  and  all  yours,  to  all  whom 
and  to  each  individually,  and  to  Mr.  Novello  in  particular,  I 
beg  to  add  mine.  With  the  sincerest  wishes  for  the  health 
and  happiness  of  all,  believe  me,  ever,  dear  Mary  Sabilla, 
your  most  affectionate  friend, 

Mary  Ann  Lamb. 

Many  a  salutary  influence  through  youth,  and  many  a 
cherished  memory  through  after-years,  did  Victoria  owe 
to  her  early  knowledge  of  Charles  Lamb's  sister.  This 
revered  friend  entered  so  genuinely  and  sympathetically 
into  the  young  girl's  feelings  and  interests,  that  the  great 
condescension  in  the  intercourse  was  scarcely  compre- 
hended by  the  latter  at  the  time  ;  but  as  age  and 
experience  brought  their  teaching,  she  learned  to  look 
back  upon  the  gracious  kindness  shown  her  in  its  true 
light,  and  she  became  keenly  aware  of  the  high  privilege 
she  had  once  enjoyed.  Actuated  by  this  consciousness, 
she  has  felt  impelled  to  record  her  grateful  sense  of  Mary 
Lamb's  generous   genial   goodness   and  noble  qualities 


MARY  LAMB.  189 

by  relating  her  own  individual  recollections  of  them,  and 
by  sharing  with  others  the  gratification  arising  out  of  their 
treasured  reminiscences. 

This  Victoria  Novello  was  a  namesake  of  honoured 
Mary  Lamb,  having  been  christened  "  Mary  "  Victoria. 
When  she  married,  she  abided  by  her  first  and  simpler 
baptismal  name,  as  being  more  in  consonance  with  the 
good  old  English  (plain  but  clerkly)  surname  of  her 
husband,  and  became  known  to  her  readers  as  their 
faithful  servant, 

Mary  Cowden  Clarke. 


I90        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS. 

We  have  said  that  Leigh  Hunt's  conversation  even  sur- 
passed his  A\Titing,  and  that  his  mode  of  telhng  a  story  in 
speech  was  still  better  than  his  mode  of  narrating  it  with 
his  pen.  His  letters  and  friendly  notes  have  something 
of  both  his  conversation  and  his  style  of  composition — 
they  are  easy,  spirited,  genial,  and  most  kindly.  To 
receive  a  letter  from  him  was  a  pleasure  that  rendered 
the  day  brighter  and  cheerier ;  that  seemed  to  touch 
London  smoke  with  a  golden  gleam ;  that  made  prosaic 
surroundings  take  a  poetical  form  ;  that  caused  common 
occurrences  to  assume  a  grace  of  romance  and  refine- 
ment, as  the  seal  was  broken  and  the  contents  were 
perused.  The  very  sight  of  his  well-known  handwriting, 
with  its  delicate  characters  of  elegant  and  upright  slender- 
ness,  sent  the  spirits  on  tip-toe  with  expectation  at  what 
was  in  store. 

At  intervals,  through  a  long  course  of  years,  it  was  our 
good  fortune  to  be  the  receivers  of  such  letters  and  notes, 
a  selection  from  which  we  place  before  our  readers,  that 
they  may  guess  at  our  delight  when  the  originals  reached 
us.  Inasmuch  as  many  of  them  are  undated,  it  has  been 
difficult  to  assign  each  its  particular  period  ;  and  there- 
fore we  give  them  not  exactly  in  chronological  order; 
though  as  nearly  according  to  the  sequence  of  time  in 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    191 

which  they  were  probably  ;\Titten  and  received  as  may  be. 
The  first  five  belong  to  the  commencement  of  the  ac- 
quaintance between  Leigh  Hunt  and  C.  C.  C,  and  to 
the  "Dear  Sir"  stage  of  addressing  each  other;  yet  are 
quite  in  the  writer's  charming  cordiality  of  tone,  and  make^ 
allusion  in  his  own  graceful  manner  to  thebasket  of  fresh 
flowers,  fruit,  and  vegetables  sent  weekly  from  the  garden 
at  Enfield  : — 

To  Mr.  C.  C.  Clarke. 

Surrey  Jail,  Tuesday,  July  13th,  18 13. 
Dear  Sir, — I  shall  be  truly  happy  to  see  yourself  and 
your  friend  to  dinner  next  Thursday,  and  can  answer  for  the 
mutton,  if  not  for  the  "  cordials  "  of  which  you  speak.  How- 
ever, when  you  and  I  are  together  there  can  be  no  want,  I 
trust,  of  cordial  hearts,  and  those  are  much  better.  Remem- 
ber, we  dine  at  three  !  Mrs.  Hunt  begs  her  respects,  but 
will  hear  of  no  introduction,  as  she  has  reckoned  you  an  old 
acquaintance  ever  since  you  made  your  appearance  before 
us  by  proxy  in  a  basket. — Very  sincerely  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  C.  C.  C. 

Surrey  Jail,  January  5th,  1814. 

Dear  Sir, — .  .  .  .  The  last  time  I  saw  your  friend  P.,  he 
put  into  my  hands  a  letter  he  had  received  from  your  father 
at  the  time  of  our  going  to  prison — a  letter  full  of  kindness 
and  cordiality.  Pray  will  you  give  my  respects  to  Mr.  Clarke, 
and  tell  him  that  had  I  been  aware  of  his  good  wishes  towards 
my  brother  and  myself,  I  should  have  been  anxious  to  say  so 
before  this  ;  but  I  know  the  differences  of  opinion  that 
sometimes  exist  in  families,  and  something  like  a  feeling  to 
that  effect  kept  me  silent.  I  should  quarrel  with  this  rogue  P. 
about  it  if,  in  the  first  place,  I  could  aftbrd  to  quarrel  with 
anybody,  and  if  I  did  not  believe  him  to  be  one  of  the  best- 
natured  men  in  the  world. 

Should  your  father  be  coming  this  way,  I  hope  he  will  do 
me  the  pleasure  of  looking  in.     I  should  have  sent  to  your- 


192       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

self  some  weeks  ago,  or  at  least  before  this,  to  come  and  see 
how  we  enjoy  your  vegetables,  only  I  was  afraid  that,  like 
most  people  at  this  season  of  the  year,  you  might  be  involved 
in  a  round  of  family  engagements  with  aunts,  cousins,  and 
second  cousins,  and  all  the  list  at  the  end  of  the  Prayer-book. 
As  soon  as  you  can  snatch  a  little  leisure,  pray  let  us  see  you. 
You  know  our  dinner-hour,  and  can  hardly  have  to  learn,  at 
this  time  of  day,  how  sincerely  I  am,  my  dear  sir,  your  friend 
.and  servant,  Leigh  Hunt. 

To  C.  C.  C,  Enfield. 

Surrey  Jail,  May  17th,  1814. 
My  dear  Sir,—.  ...  I  am  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Holt 
White  for  his  communication.  Your  new-laid  eggs  were 
exceedingly  welcome  to  me  at  the  time  they  came,  as  I  had 
just  then  begun  once  more  to  try  an  &gg  every  morning  ;  but 
I  have  been  obliged  to  give  it  up.  Perhaps  I  shall  please 
you  by  telling  you  that  I  am  writing  a  Mask  '  in  allusion  to 
the  late  events.  It  will  go  to  press,  I  hope,  in  the  course 
of  next  week,  and  this  must  be  one  of  my  excuses  both  for 
having  delayed  the  letter  before  me,  and  for  now  abruptly 
concluding  it.  I  shall  beg  the  favour  of  your  accepting  a 
copy  when  it  comes  out,  as  I  should  have  done  with  my  last 
little  publication,"  except  for  a  resolution  to  which  some  of  my 
most  intimate  friends  had  come  for  a  particular  reason,  and 
which  induced  me  to  regard  you  as  one  of  those  to  whom  I 
could  pay  the  compliment  of  «f/ sending  a  copy.  This  reason 
is  now  no  longer  in  force,  and  therefore  you  will  oblige  me 
by  waiting  to  hear  from  myself  instead  of  your  bookseller. — 
Yours,  my  dear  sir,  most  sincerely,  Leigh  Hunt. 

To  C.  C.  C. 

Surrey  Jail,  November  2nd,  18 14. 

My  dear  Sir, — I  hope  you  have  not  been  accusing  your 

friends  Oilier  and  Robertson  of  forgetting  you — or,  at  least, 

thinking  so — for  all  the  fault  is  at  my  own  door.     The  tiuth 

is,  that  when  I  received  your  request  relative  to  the  songs  of 

»  «  The  Descent  of  Liberty."        *  *'  The  Feast  of  the  Poets." 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    193 

Mozart,  I  had  resolved  to  answer  it  myself,  and  did  not 
say  a  word  on  the  subject  to  either  one  or  the  other  ;  so  that 
I  am  afraid  I  have  been  hindering  two  good  things — your  own 
enjoyment  of  the  songs,  and  an  opportunity  on  the  part  of 
Messrs.  O.  and  R.  of  showing  you  that  they  were  readier 
correspondents  than  myself.  After  all,  perhaps  a  little  of  the 
fault  is  attributable  to  yourself,  for  how  can  you  expect  a  man 
rolling  in  hebdomadal  luxuries  —pears,  apples,  and  pig— should 
think  of  anything?  By  the  way,  now  I  am  speaking  of 
luxuries,  let  me  thank  you  for  your  very  acceptable  present  of 
apples  to  my  brother  John.  If  you  had  ransacked  the  garden 
of  the  Hesperides,  you  could  not  have  made  him,  I  am  sure, 
a  more  welcome  one.     I  believe  his  notion  of  the  highest  point 

of  the  sensual  in  eating  is  an  apple,  hard,  juicy,  and  fresh 

The  printers  have  got  about  half  through  with  my  Mask. 
You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I  have  been  better  for  some 
days  than  ever  I  have  felt  during  my  imprisonment — and  in 
spite  too  of  rains  and  east  winds. 

To  C.  C.  C,  Enfield. 

Vale  of  Health,  Hampstead, 
Tuesday,  Nov.  7th,  181 5. 
My  dear  Sir,— You  have  left  a  picture  for  me,  I  under- 
stand, at  Paddington,  where  the  rogues  are  savagely  with- 
holding it  from  me.  1  shall  have  it,  I  suppose,  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  and  conjecture  it  to  be  some  poet's  or  politician's 
head  that  you  have  picked  up  in  turning  over  some  old 
engravings.  I  beg  you  to  laugh  very  heartily,  by  the  bye,  if 
I  am  anticipating  a  present,  where  there  is  none.  I  am 
apt,  from  old  remembrances,  to  tall  into  this  extravagance 
respecting  the  Enfield  quarter,  and  do  it  with  the  less  scruple, 
inasmuch  as  you  are  obliging  enough  to  consult  my  taste  in 
this  particular — which  is,  small  gifts  from  large  hearts.  I 
am  glad,  however,  in  the  piesent  instance  that  I  have  been 
made  to  wait  a  little,  since  it  enables  me,  for  once,  to  be 
beforehand  with  you,  and  I  can  at  least  send  you  your  long- 
promised  books.  The  binder,  notwithstanding  my  par- 
ticular injunctions,  and  not  having  seen,  I  suppose,  the  colour 
of  the  fields  lately  enough  to  remember  it,  has  made  the 

O 


194       RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

coveis  red  instead  of  green.  You  must  fancy  the  books  are 
blushing  lor  having  been  so  long  before  they  came. — Yours 
most  sincerely,  LEIGH  Hunt. 

The  books  here  referred  to  were  "The  Descent  of 
Liberty"  and  "  The  Feast  of  the  Poets,  with  other  pieces 
in  verse."  The  binder  to  whom  I  (C.  C.  C.)  subse- 
quently entrusted  the  task  of  putting  Leigh  Hunt's 
volume  of  poems  entitled  "  Foliage"  into  an  appropriately 
coloured  cover  of  green  played  me  a  similar  trick  to  the 
one  above  recorded,  by  sending  the  book  home  encased 
in  bright  blue  ! 

The  next  letter  alludes  to  John  Keats,  by  the  playful 
appellation  that  Leigh  Hunt  gave  him  of  "  Junkets,"  and 
commences  by  a  pleasanter  and  more  familiar  form  of 
address  to  C.  C.  C.  than  the  previously  used  *'  Dear 
Sir  :"— 

To  C.  C.  C. 

Maida  Hill,  Paddington,  July  ist,  1817. 
My  dear  Friend, —  ....  I  saw  Mr.  Hazlitt  here  last 
night,  and  he  apologizes  to  me,  as  1  doubt  not  he  will  to  you, 
for  having  delayed  till  he  cannot  send  it  [the  opera-ticket]  at 
all.  You  shall  have  it  without  fail  if  you  send  for  it  to  the 
office  on  Thursday,  though  with  still  greater  pleasure  if  you 
come  and  fetch  it  yourself  in  the  meantime.  You  shall  read 
"  Hero  and  Leander  "  with  me,  and  riot  also  in  a  translation 
or  two  from  Theocritus,  which  are,  or  ought  to  be,  all  that  is 
fine,  floral,  and  fruity,  and  any  other /that  you  can  find  to 
furnish  out  a  finished  festivity.  But  you  have  not  left  off 
your  lectures,  I  trust,  on  punctuality.  Pray  do  not,  for  I  am 
very  willing  to  take,  and  even  to  profit  by  them  ;  and  ecce 
signuin  /  I  answer  your  letter  by  return  of  post.  You 
began  this  reformation  in  me  ;  my  friend  Shelley  followed  it 
up  nobly  ;  and  you  must  know  that  friendship  can  do  just  as 
much  with  me  as  enmity  can  do  little.  What  has  become  of 
Junkets  I  know  not.     I   suppose  Queen  Mab  has  eaten  him. 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    195 

...  I  came  to  town  last  Wednesday,  spent  Saturday  even- 
ing with  Henry  Robertson,  who  has  been  unwell,  and  supped 
yesterday  with  Novello.  Harry  tells  me  that  there  is  news 
oi  the  arrival  of  Havell;  and  so  we  are  conspiring  to  get  all 
together  again,  and  have  one  of  our  old  evenings,  joco-serio- 
musico-pictorio-poetical. — Most  sincerely  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

The  next  three  letters  bear  date  in  the  same  year. 

"  Ave  Maria"  and  "Salve  Regina"  were  names  sportively 

given  by  Leigh  Hunt  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Novello  and  her 

sister,  in  reference  to  their  being  dear  to  a  composer  of 

Catholic  Motets.     "  Marlowe"  was  where  Percy  Bysshe 

Shelley  then  resided,  and  where  Leigh  Himt   and  his 

family  were  then  staying  on  a  siunmer  visit  with  his  poet 

friend.     The  jest  involved  in  the  repeated  recurrence  to 

"  Booth"  is  now  forgotten  : — 

To  Vincent  Novello,  :240,  Oxford  Street. 

Hampstead,  April  9th,  1817. 

My  dear  Novello, — Pray  pardon — in  the  midst  of  our 
hurry — this  delay  in  answering  your  note.  My  vanity  had 
already  told  me  that  you  would  not  have  stayed  away  on 
Wednesday  for  nothing  ;  but  1  was  sorry  to  find  the  cause 
was  so  painful  a  one.  I  believe  you  take  exercise  ;  but  are 
you  sure  that  you  always  take  enough,  and  stout  enough .? 
All  arts  that  involve  sedentary  enjoyment  are  great  affecters 
of  the  stomach  and  causers  of  indigestion  ;  and  I  have  a 
right  to  hint  a  little  advice  on  the  occasion,  having  been  a 
great  sufferer  as  well  as  sinner  on  the  score  myself.  If  you 
do  not  need  it,  you  must  pardon  my  impertinence.  We  set 
off  at  eleven  to-morrow  morning,  and  are  in  all  the  chaos  of 
packed  trunks,  lumber,  Utter,  dust,  dirty  dry  fingers,  &c. 
But  Booth  is  still  true  to  the  fair,  so  my  service  to  them, 
both  Ave  Maria  and  Salve  Regina.  The  ladies  join  with  me 
in  these  devoirs,  and  so  does  Mr  Keats,  as  in  poetry  bound. 
Ever  my  dear  Novello  most  heartily  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt, 

P.S. — I  will  write  to  you  from  the  country. 

o  2 


196       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

To  Vincent  Novello. 

Marlowe,  April  17th,  18 17. 
My  dear  Novello,— One  oi  Mr.  Shelley's  great  objects 
is  to  have  a  pianoforte  as  quickly  as  possible,  so  that  though 
he  cannot  alter  his  ultimatum  with  regard  to  a  grand  one, 
he  wishes  me  to  say  that,  if  Mr.  Kirkman  has  no  objection, 
he  will  give  him  the  security  requested,  and  of  the  same  date 
of  years,  for  a  cabinet  piano  from  fifty  to  seventy  guineas. 
Of  course  he  would  like  to  have  it  as  good  as  possible,  and 
under  your  auspices.  Will  you  put  this  to  the  builder  of 
harmonies?  I  have  been  delighted  to  see  in  the  Chronicle 
an  advertisement  of  Birchall's,  announcing  editions  of  all 
Mozart's  works  ;  and  shall  take  an  early  opportunity  of 
expressing  it  and  extending  the  notice.  I  would  have 
Mozart  as  common  in  good  libraries^  as  Shakespeare  and 
Spenser,  and  prints  trom  Raphael.  Most  of  us  here  envy 
you  the  power  of  seeing  "  Don  Giovanni  ; "  yet  we  still 
muster  up  virtue  enough  to  wish  you  all  well,  and  to  send 
our  best  remembrances  in  return  to  Ave  and  Salve,  to  whom 
I  am  as  good  a  Boothite  as  1  can  be,  considering  that  I  am 
also  very  truly  yours,  LEIGH  HUNT. 

To  Vincent  Novello,  240,  Oxford  Street. 

Albion  House,  Marlowe,  Bucks, 

June  24th,  18 17. 
My  dear  Novello, — You  must  not  think  ill  of  me  for 
having  omitted  to  write  to  you  before,  except,  indeed,  as  far 
as  concerned  an  old  bad  habit  of  delay  in  these  matters, 
which  all  my  friends  have  reproved  in  turn,  and  which  all 
help  to  spoil  me  by  excusing.  I  begged  Mr.  Clarke  to  let 
you  know  how  much  we  liked  the  piano  here  ;  but  when  you 
wrote  about  poor  Wesley,  I  happened  myself  to  be  suffering 
under  a  pretty  strong  fever,  which  lasted  me  from  one  Friday 
to  the  next,  and  from  which  I  did  not  quickly  recover.  I 
have  since  got  well  again,  however,  and  yet  I  have  not 
written ;  nay,  I  am  going  to  make  an  excuse  out  of  my  very 

3  [Thanks  to  Vincent  Novello,  this  is  now  the  case.  C.C.  C, 
1875.] 


LEIGH  H  UNT  AND  HIS  LE  TTERS.     1 9  7 

impudence  (I  hope  the  ladies  are  present),  and  plainly  tell 
you,  that  the  worse  my  reason  is  for  writing  at  last,  the  better 
you  will  be  pleased  with  it,  for  we  are  coming  home  to- 
morrow. If  that  will  not  do,  I  have  another  piece  of  pre- 
sumption, which  I  shall  double  my  thrust  with,  and  fairly 
run  you  through  the  heart;  and  this  is,  that  we  are  coming 
to  live  near  you,  towards  the  end  of  the  new  road, 
Paddington. 

I  am  sorry  I  can  tell  you  nothing  about  the  music  of  this 
place,  except  as  far  as  the  birds  make  it.  I  say  the  music, 
because  it  seems  there  are  a  party  of  the  inhabitants  who  are 
fond  of  it.  At  least,  1  was  invited  the  other  day  in  a  very 
worshipful  manner  to  one,  and  regret  I  was  not  able  to  go, 
as  I  fear  it  might  have  been  misconstrued  into  pride.  There 
are  other  things,  however,  which  you  are  fond  of — beautiful 
walks,  uplands,  valleys,  wood,  water,  steeples  issuing  out  of 
clumps  of  trees,  most  luxuriant  hedges,  meads,  c(irn fields, 
brooks,  nooks,  and  pretty  looks.  (Here  a  giggle,  and  a  shake 
of  the  head  from  the  ladies.  Ave  and  Salve,  be  quiet.) 
The  other  day  a  party  of  us  dined  in  a  boat  under  the  hang- 
ing woods  of  Clcveden — mentioned,  you  know,  by  Pope  : — 

Cleveden's  proud  alcove 

The  bower  of  wan' on  Shrewsbury  and  Love. 

(Giggle  and  shake)  and  a  day  or  two  before  we  spent  a  most 
beautiful  day,  dining,  talking,  wining,  spruce-beering,  and 
walking,  in  and  about  Medmenham  Abbey,  where  strangers 
are  allowed  to  take  this  liberty  in  memory  of  a  set  Oj.  "lay 
friars"  who  are  said  to  have  taken  miny  more, — I  mean 
Wilkes  and  his  club,  who  feasted  and  slept  here  occasionally, 
performing  profane  ceremonies,  and  others  perhaps  which 
the  monks  would  have  held  to  bo  not  quite  so.  (Giggle  and 
shake.) — If  these  people  were  the  gross  libertines  they  were 
said  to  be,  the  cause  of  kindly  virtue  was  indeed  in  bad 
hands, — hands  but  just  better  than  the  damnatory  and  selfish 
ones  to  which  the  world  has  usually  committed  it  ; — but 
there  is  little  reason  to  doubt  thac  the  stories  of  them  (such 
as  the   supposed  account  for  instance  in  "  Crysal,   or   the 


198       RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

Adventures  of  a  Guinea  ")  have  been  much  exaggerated.  If 
men  of  the  most  heartfelt  principle  do  not  escape,  although 
they  contradict  in  theory  only  the  vile  customs  of  the  world, 
what  can  be  expected  from  more  libertine  departers  from 
them  ?— It  is  curious  that  the  people  at  Medmenham  itself 
do  not  seem  to  think  so  ill  of  the  club  as  others.  To  be  sure, 
it  is  not  easy  to  say  how  far  sonx^  family  feelings  may  not 
be  concerned  in  the  matter  ;  but  so  it  is  ;  and  together  with 
their  charity,  they  have  a  great  deal  of  health  and  beauty. 
It  was  said  with  equal  naivete  and  shrewdness,  the  other 
day,  by  a  very  excellent  person  that  "  faith  and  charity  are 
incompatible,"  and  so  the  {illegible,  torn  by  seal^  seem  re- 
solved to  maintain  ;  but  hope  and  charity  are  excellent  com- 
panions, and  seem  [illegible]  of  St.  Paul's  reading,  I  would 
have  the  three  Graces  completed  thus, — Charity,  Hope,  and 
Nature.  I  have  done  nothing  to  my  proposed  Play  here  : — 
I  do  not  know  how  it  is ;  but  I  love  things  essentially 
dramatic,  and  yet  I  feel  less  inclination  for  dramatic  writing 
than  any  other, — I  mean  my  own,  of  course.  Considering 
also  what  the  taste  of  the  day  has  been, — what  it  is  to  run 
the  gauntlet  through  managers,  actors,  and  singers, — and 
what  a  hobgoblin  I  have  been  in  my  time  to  the  playwrights 
themselves,  I  cannot  help  modestly  repeating  to  myself  some 
lines  out  of  your  favourite  Address  of  Beaumont  to  Fletcher 
about  the  Faithful  Shepherdess, — upon  which,  by  the  bye,  I 
am  writing  this  letter,  seated  on  a  turfy  mound  in  ni)-  friend's 
garden,  a  little  place  with  a  rustic  seat  in  it,  shrouded  and 
covered  with  trees,  with  a  delightful  field  of  sheep  on  one 
side,  a  white  cottage  among  the  leaves  in  a  set  of  fields  on 
the  other,  and  the  haymakers  mowing  and  singing  in  the 
fields  behind  me.  On  the  side  towards  the  lawn  and  house, 
it  is  as  completely  shut  in,  as  Chaucer's  "pretty  parlour"  in 
the  ■'  Flower  and  the  Leafe." — Mrs.  Hunt  in  the  meantime  is 
revenging  the  cause  of  all  uninspired  fiddlers, — namely, 
scraping  Apollo.  Pray  let  the  ladies  remain  out  of  the  secret 
of  this  as  long  as  the  suspense  shall  give  them  any  pleasure  ; 
and  then  tell  them  that  the  said  Apollo,  whatever  they  may 
think  or  even  hope  to  the  contrary,  is  no  gentleman,  but  a 
plaster  statue,  which  Marianne  is  puttnig  into  a  proper  con- 


LEIGH  HUN  J  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     199 

dition  for  Mr.  Shelley's  library.  A  Venus  is  already  scraped, 
to  my  infinite  relief,  who  sympathized  extremely  with  her 
ribs, — a  sentiment  which  the  ladies  nevertheless  are  not 
very  quick  to  show  towards  theirs.  I  beg  pardon  of  Ave, — 
I  mean  are  very,— "nevertheless  "  being  a  shocking  and 
involuntary  intrusion,  suggested  by  my  unjustifiable  forget- 
fulness  oi  Mr.  Booth. 

I  will  let  you  know  where  I  am  when  I  return.  If  I  have 
written  no  play,  I  have  not  been  idle  with  other  verses,  and 
am  in  all  things  the  same  as  I  was  when  I  left  town,  so  that 
I  need  not  say  I  am  sincerely  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

The  following  letter  has  no  date  \  but  its  postscript 
explanation  of  the  verse-signatures  in  the  "  Literary 
Pocket-Book"  shows  it  to  have  been  written  in  1819,  which 
was  the  first  year  in  which  that  publication  appeared.  It 
begins  without  set  form  of  address,  plunging  at  once,  in 
sportive  tashion,  into  a  whimsically-worded  yet  most 
kindly  rebuke  to  C.  C.  C.  for  having  been  impatient  at 
his  friend's  delay  in  answering  a  communication.  The 
reference  to  the  actor  Fawcett  and  his  grating  laugh 
comes  in  with  as  pleasant  an  effect  as  the  reference  to 
John  Keats's  loss  ol  his  brother  Tom  strikes  with  pain- 
fully vivid  impression  after  this  long  lapse  of  years  : — 

To  C.  C.  C,  [No  date.] 

And  so  Charles  Clarke  is  very  angry  with  me  for  not 
sooner  answering  his  two  letters,  and  talks  to  my  iriends 
about  my  "regal  scorn."  Well, — I  have  been  guilty  cer- 
tainly of  not  sooner  answering  said  two  ; — I  have  not 
answered  them,  even  though  they  pleased  me  infinitely  : — 
Charles  Clarke  also  sent  me  some  verses,  the  goodness  of 
which  (if  he  will  not  be  very  angry)  even  surprised  me,  yet  I 
answered  not  : — he  sent  me  them  again,  yet  I  answered 
not  :— undoubtedly  I  have  been  extremely  unresponsive  ;  I 
have  seemed  to  neglect  him, — I  have  been  silent,  dilators, 


200       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

unepistolary,  strange,  distant  (  miles),  and  (if  the 

phrase  "  regal  scorn  "  be  true)  without  an  excuse. 

C.  C.  C.  (meditative,  but  quick) — Ho,  not  without  an  ex- 
cuse, I  dare  say.  Come,  come,  I  ought  to  have  thought  of 
that,  before  I  used  the  words  "  regal  scorn."  I  did  not 
mean  them  in  fact,  and  therefore  I  thought  they  would  touch 
him.  Bless  my  soul,  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  an  excuse 
for  him,  now  I  think  of  it ; — let  me  see  ; — he  must  have  been 
very  busy  ; — yes,  yes,  he  was  very  busy,  depend  upon  it  : — I 
should  not  v/onder  if  he  had  some  particular  reason  for  being 
busy  just  now  ; — I  warrant  you  he  has  been  writing  like  the 
Devil  ; — I'll  stake  my  life  on't, — he  has  almost  set  his  ting- 
ling head  asleep  like  my  foot,  with  writing  ; — and  then  too, 
you  may  be  certain  he  reproached  himself  every  day  never- 
theless with  not  writing  to  me  ;— I'll  be  bound  to  say  that  he 
said  :  I  will  write  to  Charles  Clarke  to-day,  and  I  will  not 
forget  to  give,  another  notice  to  him  in  tlie  Examiner  (for  he 
did  give  one),  and  above  all,  he  will  see  his  verses  there,  and 
then  he  will  guess  all ; — then  one  day  he  is  busy  till  it  is  too' 
late  to  write  by  the  post,  and  in  some  cursed  hurry  he  forgets 
me  on  Saturday,  and  then — and  what  then  ?  Am  I  not  one 
of  his  real  friends .''  Have  I  not  a  7-ight  to  be  forgotten  or 
rather  unwritten  to  by  him,  for  weeks,  if  by  turning  his  looks, 
not  his  heart,  av/ay  from  me,  he  can  snatch  repose  upon  the 
confidence  of  my  good  opinion  of  him  ?  I  think  1  see  him 
asking  me  this  ;  and  curse  me  (I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss 
Jones),  but  confound  me,  I  should  say — no,  I  should  not 
say, — but  the  deuce  take — in  short,  here's  the  beginning  of 
his  letter,  and  so  there's  an  end  of  my  vagaries. 

My  dear  friend,  you  are  right.  I  luxve  been  very  busy, — 
so  busy  both  summer  and  winter,  that  summer  has  scarcely 
been  any  to  me  ;  and  my  head  at  times  has  almost  grown 
benumbed  over  my  writing.  I  have  been  intending  eveiy- 
thing  and  anything,  except  loyal  anti-constitutionalism  and 
Christian  want  of  charity.  I  have  written  prose,  I  have 
written  poetry,  I  have  written  levities  and  gravities,  I  have 
written  two  acts  of  a  Tragedy,  and  {oil  Diva  pecunia)  I  have 
written  a  Pocket-Book  !     Let  my  Morocco  blushes  speak  for 

e ;  for  with  this  packet  comes  a  copy.     When  you  read  my 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     201 

Calendar  of  Nature,  you  will /^^/  that  I  did  ijc  forget  you  ; 
for  you  are  one  of  those  in  whose  company  I  always  seem  to 
be  writing  these  things.  Had  your  poetry  arrived  soon 
enough,  I  should  have  said  "  Oh,  ho  ! "'  and  clapped  it  among 
my  Pocket-Book  prisoners.  As  it  is,  it  must  go  at  large  in 
the  Examiner,  where  it  will  accordingly  be  found  in  a  week 
or  two.  And  here  let  me  say,  that  bad  as  I  have  been,  I 
begged  Mr.  Holmes  to  explain  why  I  had  not  written  ;  so 
that  if  he  has  been  a  negligent  epistolian  as  well  as  myself, 
why — there  are  two  good  fellows  who  have  done  as  they 
ought  not  to  have  done,  and  there  is  no  epistle  in  us.  (Here 
Charles  Clarke  gives  a  laugh,  which  socially  speaking  is  very 
musical ;  but  abstractedly,  resembles  fifty  Fawcetts,  or  ten 
rusty  iron  gates  scraping  along  gravel.)  You  must  know 
that  you  must  keep  my  tragic  drama  a  secret,  unless  you 
have  one  female  ear  into  which  you  can  own  for  me  the  rough 
impeachment.  (Here  ten  gates.)  It  is  on  the  same  subject 
as  the  "  Cid  "  of  Corneille  ;  and  I  mean  it  to  be  ready  by  the 
middle  of  January  for  the  so  theatre;  if  you  will  get  your 
hands  in  training  meantime,  I  trust,  God  willing,  the  ground- 
lings will  have  their  ears  split.  If  not,  I  shall  make  up  my 
mind,  like  a  damned  vain  fellow,  that  they  are  too  large  and 
tough  ;  and  so  with  this  new  pun  in  your  throat,  go  you 
along  with  me  in  as  many  things  as  you  did  before,  my  dear 
friend,  for  I  am  ever  the  same,  most  truly  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt, 
P.S  — The  verses  marked  <I>  in  the  Pocket-Book  are  mine, 
A  Mr.  Shelley's,  P.R.  a  Mr.  Procter's,  and  1.  Keats's,  who  has 
just  lost  his  brother  Tom  after  a  most  exemplary  attendance 
on  him.  The  close  of  such  lingering  illness,  however,  can 
hardly  be  lamented.  Mr.  Richards,  who  has  just  dropped  in 
upon  me,  begs  to  be  remembered  to  you. 

The  following  letter  alludes  to  a  project  for  a  work 
which  was  to  be  published  by  Power,  was  to  be  entitled 
*'  Musical  Evenings,"  and  was  to  consist  of  poetry, 
original  or  selected,  by  Leigh  Hunt,  adapted  to  melodies, 
original  or  selected,  by  Vincent  Novello.     The  work, 


202        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

most  tasteful  in  conception  and  most  tastefully  carried 
out  by  the  poet  and  musician  in  concert  (so  far  as  it  pro- 
ceeded towards  execution),  was  ultimately  given  up,  as 
being  much  too  far  in  advance  of  the  then  existing  public 
taste  for  music,  and  from  the  conviction  that  not  enough 
copies  would  be  sold  to  make  the  enterprise  profitable  to 
either  publisher,  poet,  or  musician  : — 

To  V.  N. 

13,  Mortimer  Terrace,  Kentish  Town, 
Feb.  15th,  1820. 

My  dear  Novello,— Unless  you  should  avail  yourself  of 
the  holiday  to-morrow  to  transact  any  unprofessional  business 
elsewhere,  will  you  oblige  me  by  coming  and  taking  your 
chop  or  your  tea  here  to-morrow,  to  talk  over  a  proposal 
which  Power  has  made  me,  and  which  I  think  you  will  con- 
sider a  good  one?  The  truth  is,  I  want  you,  if  you  have  no 
objection,  to  negotiate  the  money  part  of  the  business  between 
him  and  me ;  as  I  have  no  face  in  these  matters  but  a 
mediating  one,  like  your  own.  I  will  chop  at  half-past  three. 
At  all  events,  in  case  you  go  to  Hampstead,  and  can  come 
after  your  schooling.  Hampstead  is  now  in  my  eye,  hill,  trees, 
church  and  all,  from  the  slopes  near  Caen  wood  to  my  right, 
and  Primrose  and  Haverstock  Hills  with  Steele's  cottage  tomy 
left.  I  trust  I  shall  have  an  early  opportunity  of  introducing 
Mrs.  Novello  to  Pan — both  in  his  frying  and  sylvan  character. 
When  I  add  that  we  have  been  in  great  confusion  (it  is  not 
^reat  now),  I  do  it  to  bar  all  objections  from  you  on  that  score, 
and  to  say  that  I  expect  you  the  more  confidently  on  that  very 
account,  if  you  can  come  at  all.  The  house  is  most  conve- 
nient and  cheerful,  and  considered  by  us  as  quite  a  bargain. 

P.S. — Power  is  half  prepared  to  welcome  you,  if  you  have 
no  objection.  He  speaks  of  ji^z^r  power  (I  must  call  him 
fondly  my  Power)  in  the  highest  terms  ;  but  this,  I  suppose, 
is  no  new  thing  to  your  lyrical  ears. 

If  you  can  come  early,  we  will  make  a  whole  holiday,  which 
will  be  a  great  refreshment  to  me^ 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     203 

The  "  original "  manuscript  copy  of  Leigh  Hunt's 
translation  of  Tasso's  "  Amyntas,"  alluded  to  in  the  next 
letter,  Vincent  Novello  caused  to  be  bound  in  green  and 
gold,  together  with  the  printed  presentation  copy  of  the 
first  edition  ;  and  the  volume  is  still  in  excellent  preserva- 
tion. On  the  title-page  is  written  in  Leigh  Hunt's  hand, 
"  To  Vincent  Novello,  from  his  affectionate  friend  the 
translator;"  and  inside  the  cover  is  written  in  Vincent 
Novello's  hand,  beneath  his  own  name  and  address, 
"  I  prize  this  volume,  which  was  so  kindly  presented 
to  me  by  my  dear  friend  Leigh  Hunt,  as  one  of  the 
most  valuable  books  in  my  library ;  and  I  particularly 
request  that  it  may  be  carefully  preserved  as  an  heir- 
loom in  my  family  when  I  am  no  more. — V.  N." 
The  "  sorrows"  to  which  Leigh  Hunt  sympathizingly 
refers  were  those  of  losing  a  beautiful  boy  of  four  years 
old,  Sydney  Vincent  Novello  : — 

To  V.  N.  (8,  Percy  Street.) 

Kentish  Town,  Wednesday, 
July,  1820. 
My  dear  Novello, — In  addition  to  the  "  Morgante,"  I 
send  you  the  first  volume  of  "  Montaigne,"  which  I  have 
marked  (so  that  I  shall  be  in  a  manner  in  your  company  if 
you  read  any  of  it),  and  also  the  promised  copy  of  "  Amyntas," 
with  the  original  to  compare  it  with  in  any  passage,  as  you 
seem  to  like  those  awful  confrontings.  Pray  get  an  "  Ariosto," 
if  you  have  time.  I  am  sure  his  natural  touches  and  lively 
variety  will  delight  you.  The  edition  I  spoke  of  is  Boschini's, 
a  little  duodecimo  or  eighteens,  printed  by  Schuize  and 
Dean,  Poland  Street,  where  I  believe  it  is  to  be  bought.  But 
you  could  get  it  at  any  foreign  bookseller's.  Be  good  enough 
to  leave  the  Cenci  MS.  out  for  me  with  the  Gliddons.  I 
should  not  care  about  it,  but  the  Gisbornes  are  about  to 
return  to  Italy,  and  I  am  not  sure  whether  they  have  given 
or  lent  it   me.     God  bless  you.     You  know  how  I   lespect 


204        RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

sorrow  : — you  know  also  how  I  respect  the  wisdom  and  kind- 
ness that  try  to  be  cheerful  again.  I  need  not  add  how  much 
the  feelings  of  you  and  Mrs.  Novello  (to  whom  give  our 
kindest  good  wishes  in  case  we  do  not  see  you  to-morrow) 
are  respected,  and  sympathized  with,  by  your  ever  affectio- 
nate friend, 

Leigh  Hunt, 
P.  S. —  Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  answer  this  note.  Go 
out  instead  and  buy  the  "  Ariosto."  It  is  the  pleasantest  little 
pocket-rogue  in  the  world.  The  translation  of  "  Montaigne" 
is  an  excellent  one,  by  Cotton  the  poet,  old  Izaak  Walton's 
friend. 

The  next  letter  is  superscribed  after  the  pleasant 
fashion  that  Leigh  Hunt  occasionally  adopted,  in  direct- 
ing his  letters  to  his  friends,  of  putting  some  gay  jest 
outside,  as  if  he  must  add  a  last  word  or  two  in  sending 
off  a  communication  with  those  he  loved,  and  as  if  he 
could  not  bear  to  conclude  his  chat  or  take  leave  of 
them  : — 

To  C.  C.  C 

Bellevue  House,  Ramsgate. 
By  favour  of  Mrs.  Gliddon — post  unpaid. 

Percy  Street,  August  31st,  182 1. 

My  dear    -u^zi^—'zrz 


Si      si      si 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Novello  tell  me  that  you  will  be  gratified  at 
having  a  word  from  me,  however  short  What  word  shall  I 
send  you,  equally  short  and  sweet  ?  I  believe  I  must  refer 
you  to  the  postwoman  ;  for  the  ladies  understand  these 
beatic  brevities  best.  However,  if  I  cannot  prevail  on  myself 
to  send  you  a  mere  word  or  a  short  one,  I  will  send  you  a 
true  one,  which  is,  that  in  spite  of  all  my  non-epistolary 
offences — -(come,  it  is  a  short  one  too,  after  all) — I  am,  my 
dear  Clarke,  very  truly  and  \\ea.vi\\y  yojirs, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

P.S. — Novello  and  I  are  just  putting  the  finishing  touch  to 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.      205 

our  first   Musical   Evening,  which  I  hope  Power  will  put  it 
into  7ny  ditto  to  send  you  a  copy  of. 

It  is  difficult  to  ascertain  the  period  when  the  follow- 
ing note  was  written,  but  it  appears  to  belong  to  an 
early  one : — 

To  C.  C.  C. 

[No  date.'J 
My  dear  Friend, — .  ...  I  send  you  on  the  opposite 
side  some  verses  which  my  Summer  Party  sing  on  the  grass 
after  dinner.  I  forgot,  by-the-bye,  to  tell  you  yesterday  a 
piece  of  news  which  has  flattered  me  much — that  Stothard 
told  an  acquaintance  of  mine  the  other  day  he  had  been 
painting  a  subject  from  "  Rimini  :" — 

To  the  Spirit  great  and  good, 
Felt,  although  not  understood, — 
By  whose  breath,  and  in  whose  eyes, 
The  green  earth  rolls  in  the  blue  skies,— 
Who  we  know,  from  things  that  bless, 
Must  delight  in  loveliness ; 
And  who,  therefore,  we  believe. 
Means  us  well  in  things  that  grieve,— 

Gratitude  !     Gratitude  ! 
Heav'n  be  p'-aised  as  heavenly  should, 
Not  with  slavery,  or  with  fears, 
But  with  a  face  as  towards  a  friend,  and  with  thin  sparkling 

[tears. 
The  next  five  letters  were  written  while  Leigh  Hunt 
and  his  family  were  on  their  way  to  Italy.  The  allusion 
to  "  Fanchon"  refers  to  an  arrangement  of  Himmel's  so- 
named  opera,  which  Vincent  Novello  had  brought  out 
in  four  books  of  Pianoforte  duets. 

"  Wilful  Woman"  was  an  affectionate  nickname  of 
Leigh  Hunt's  for  Mrs.  Vincent  Novello,  in  recognition 
of  her  having  a  decided  "  will "  in  matters  right  and  good. 
A  woman  less  "  wilful"  in  the  unreasonable  sense  of  the 


2o6        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

term,  or  more  full  of  will  in  the  noblest  sense  of  the  term, 
could  not  be  cited  than  herself: — 

To  V.  N.  [_m  pencil.'] 

2,  High  Street,  Ramsgate, 

Monday,  December  3rd,  1821. 

My  dear  Novello,— Here  we  are  in  absolute  quiet,  with 
a  real  flat  place  to  sit  upon,  and  several  foot  square  of  par- 
lour to  walk  about  when  one  pleases  :  in  short,  in  lodgings  — 
the  rudder  ot  the  vessel  having  been  so  broken  that  she 
cannot  set  sail,  fair  wind  or  foul,  till  Wednesday  evening. 

We  now,  with  a  rascally  selfishness,  wish  that  the  wind 
may  not  change  for  a  whole  week,  though  the  200  sail  in  the 
harbours  should  be  groaning  every  timber  ;  for  though  we 
were  much  alarmed  at  first  in  moving  my  wife,  she  already 
seems  wonderfully  refreshed  by  this  little  taste  of  shore  ;  and 
at  all  events  while  we  do  remain  at  Ramsgate,  I  am  sure  it  is 
much  better  for  both  of  us  that  we  should  be  here.  Only 
think  !  we  shall  have  a  quiet  bed  at  night,  and  even  air!  If 
we  were  moving  on  at  sea,  it  would  be  another  matter  ;  but  I 
confess  the  idea  of  lying  and  lingering  in  that  manner  in  a 
muddy  harbour  was  to  me,  in  my  state  of  health,  like  rotting 
alive. 

When  I  say,  we  can  go  on  Wednesday,  I  do  not  mean  that 
we  shall  do  so,  or  that  I  think  we  shall  ;  for  the  wind  is  still 
in  the  west,  and  I  suspect  after  all  these  winds,  we  shall  have 
a  good  mass  of  rain  to  fall,  of  which  diey  are  generally  the 
avant-couriers.  What  say  you  then  .^  Will  you  come  and 
beatify  us  again.?-  And  will  Mrs.  Novello  come  with  you? 
W^hy  not  give  the  baby  a  dip  in  a  warm  bath,  if  they  must  be 
still  one  and  indivisible.  I  think  we  can  get  you  a  bed  in  the 
house  ;  if  not,  there  are  plenty  in  the  neighbourhood.  Pray 
remember  me  cordially  to  the  Gliddons,  and  tell  the  fair  one 
that  her  sugar-plums  have  been  a  shower  of  aids  and  assist- 
ance to  us  with  the  children.  I  shall  see  if  I  can't  send  her 
something  as  sweet  from  Italy.  In  the  meantime  I  send  her 
and  Mrs.  Novello,  and  all  of  you,  the  best  salutations  you 
can  couple  with  the  idea  of 

L.  H. 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    207 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Novello,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  G. 
(Percy  Street.) 

Dartmouth,  December  24th,  1821. 
Dear  Friends, — Here  we  are  again  in  England,  after 
beating  twice  up  and  down  the  Channel,  and  getting  as  far 
as  the  Atlantic.  What  we  have  suffered  I  will  leave  you  to 
imagine,  till  you  see  my  account  of  the  voyage  ;  but  we  were 
never  more  inclined  to  think  that  "  All's  well  that  ends  well,'' 
and  what  we  hoped  we  still  hope,  and  are  still  prepared  to 
venture  for.  We  arrived  on  Saturday,  which  was  no  post- 
day.  Next  day  I  wrote  to  my  brother  and  Miss  Kent,  and 
begged  the  latter  to  send  you  news  of  our  safety  ;  for  I  was 
still  exhausted  with  the  fatigue  and  anxiety,  and  I  knew  well 
that  you  would  willingly  wait  another  day  for  my  handwriting 
when  you  were  sure  of  our  welfare.  I  had  hoped  that  this 
letter  would  reach  you  in  the  middle  of  what  /  would  reach 
in  vain — your  Christmas  festivities  ;  so  that  a  bit  of  my  soul 
if  not  of  my  body,  of  my  handwriting  if  not  my  grasping 
hand,  might  come  in  at  your  parlour  door  and  seem  to  join 
you  as  my  representative  ;  but  a  horrid  matter-of-fact  woman 
at  the  Castle  Inn  here,  who  proclaims  the  most  unwelcome 
things  in  a  voice  hideously  clear  and  indisputable,  says  that 
a  post  takes  two  nights  and  a  day.  I  hope,  however,  to  hear 
from  you,  and  to  write  again,  for  the  vessel  has  been  strained 
by  the  bad  weather,  and  must  be  repaired  a  little,  and  the 
captain  vows  he  will  not  go  to  sea  again  till  the  wind  is 
exquisitely  fair.  Above  all,  Dartmouth  is  his  native  place, 
and  who  shall  say  to  him,  "  Get  up  from  your  old  friends  and 
fireside,  and  quench  yourself  in  a  sea  fog.'"'  Not  I,  by  St. 
Vincent  and  St.  Sabilla,  and  King  Arthur  and  Queen  Anas- 
tasia.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  alarms  which  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  help  feeling  on  such  occasions  have  done  no  good 
to  Mrs.  Hunt's  malady,  though  when  she  was  in  repose  the 
sea  air  was  evidently  beneficial.  For  my  part,  I  confess  I 
was  as  rank  a  coward  many  times  as  a  father  and  husband 
who  has  seven  of  the  best  reasons  for  cowardice  can  be ;  but 
Hope  and  Mutuality  you  know  are  my  mottoes.  And  so, 
with  all  sorts  of  blessings  upon  your  heads,  farewell,  dear 
friends,  till  we  hear  from  each  other  again. — Stop  !     Here  is 


2o8        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

a  Christmas  Carol  in  which  perhaps  some  of  yon  will  pay  ma 
a  visit — Mistletoe  and  Holly  !  Mistletoe  and  Holly  ! 

L.  H. 
Remember  me  to  the  Lambs,  to  Mr.  Clarke,  to  the  Robert- 
sons, etc. 

To  V.  N. 

Stonehouse,  near  Plymouth,  Feb.  nth,  1822. 
Oh  Novello  !  what  a  disappointing,  wearisome,  vexatious, 
billowy,  up-and-downy,  unbearable,  beautiful  world  it  is  !  I 
cannot  tell  you  all  I  have  gone  through  since  I  wrote  to  you ; 
but  I  believe,  after  all,  that  all  has  been  for  the  best,  bad  as 
it  is.  The  first  stoppage,  unavoidable  as  it  was,  almost  put 
me  beside  myself.  Those  sunshiny  days  and  moonlight 
nights  !  And  the  idea  of  running  merrily  to  Gibraltar  !  I 
used  to  shake  in  my  bed  at  night  with  bilious  impatience, 
and  feel  ready  to  rise  up  and  cry  out.  But  knowing  what  I 
since  know,  I  have  not  only  reason  to  believe  that  my  wife 
would  have  suffered  almost  as  terribly  afterwards  as  she  did 
at  the  time,  but  I  am  even  hapjjy  that  we  underwent  the 
second  stoppage  at  this  place, — at  least  as  happy  as  a  man 
can  be  whose  very  relief  arises  from  the  illness  oi  one  dear  to 
him.  Marianne  fell  so  ill  the  day  on  which  the  new  vessel 
we  had  engaged  sailed  from  Plymouth,  that  she  was  obliged 
to  lose  forty-six  ounces  of  blood  in  twenty-four  hours,  to 
prevent  inflammatory  fever  on  the  lungs.  With  the  exception 
of  a  few  hours  she  has  been  in  bed  ever  since,  sometimes 
improving,  sometimes  relapsing  and  obliged  to  lose  more 
blood,  but  always  so  weak  and  so  ailing  that,  especially 
during  the  return  of  these  obstinate  S.W.  winds,  I  have  con- 
gratulated myself  almost  every  hour  that  circumstances  con- 
spired with  my  fears  for  her  to  hinder  us  from  proceeding. 
Indeed  I  should  never  have  thought  ot  doing  so  after  her 
Dartmouth  illness,  had  she  not,  as  she  now  confesses,  in  her 
eagerness  not  to  be  the  means  of  detaining  me  again,  mis- 
represented to  me  her  power  of  bearing  the  voyage.  I  shall 
now  set  myself  down  contentedly  till  spring,  when  we  shall 
have  shorter  nights,  and  she  will  be  able  to  be  upon  deck  in  the 
daytime.     She  will  then  receive  benefit  from  the  sea,  as  she 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    209 

ought  to  do,  instead  of  being  shaken  by  it ;  and  as  to  gun- 
powder !  be  sure  I  shall  always  make  inquiries  enougli  about 
that.  She  starts  sometimes  to  this  hour  in  tlie  middle  of  the 
night,  with  the  horror  or  it,  out  of  her  sleep.  It  gave  a  sort 
of  horrible  sting  to  my  feet  sometimes  as  I  walked  the  deck, 
and  fancied  we  might  all  be  sent  shattered  up  in  the  air  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  ;  but  I  seldom  thought  of  this  danger,  and 
do  not  believe  there  was  any  to  be  seriously  alarmed  at,  though 
the  precautions  and  penalties  connected  with  the  carriage  of 
such  an  article  were  undoubtedly  sufficient  to  startle  a  fresh- 
water imagination,  to  say  nothing  of  that  of  a  sick  mother 
with  six  children.  The  worst  feeling  it  gave  me  was  when  it 
came  over  me  down  in  the  cabin  while  we  were  comparati^eJy 
comfortable, — especially  when  little  baby  was  pla.\ing  his 
innocent  tricks.  I  used  to  ask  myself  what  right  I  had  to 
bring  so  much  innocent  flesh  and  blood  into  such  an  atrocious 
possibility  of  danger.  But  what  used  chiefly  to  rouse  my 
horrors  was  the  actual  danger  of  shipwreck  during  the  gales ; 
and  of  these,  as  you  may  guess  from  my  being  imaginative, 
I  had  my  full  share.  Oh  the  feelings  with  which  I  have  gone 
out  from  the  cabin  to  get  news,  and  have  stood  at  the  top  of 
that  little  staircase  do-an  which  you  all  came  to  bid  me  good- 
bye !  How  I  have  thought  of  you  in  your  safe,  warm  rooms, 
now  merrily  laughing,  now  "  stopping  the  career  of  laughter 
with  a  sigh'"  to  wonder  how  the  "  sailors  "  might  be  going  on! 
My  worst  sensation  of  all  was  the  impossibility  I  felt  of 
dividing  myselt  into  seven  different  persons  in  case  anything 
happened  to  my  wife  and  children.  But  as  the  voyage  is  not 
yet  over^remember,  however,  that  the  worst  part,  the  winter 
part,  is  over.  You  shall  have  an  account  of  that  as  well  as 
the  rest  when  I  get  to  Italy  ane  write  it  for  the  new  work. 
Remember  in  the  meantime  what  I  tell  you,  and  that  we 
mean  to  be  very  safe,  very  cowardly,  and  vernal  all  the  rest 
of  the  way.  It  was  a  little  hard  upon  me, — was  it  not?  that 
I  could  not  have  the  [qu  ?  reward — illegible]  of  finishing  the 
voyage  boldly  at  once,  especially  as  it  was  such  fine  weather 
when  they  set  off  again,  and  I  can  go  through  any  danger  as 
stubbornly  as  most  persons,  provided  you  allow  me  a  pale 
face  and  a  considerable  quantity  of  internal  poltroonery:  — 

P 


2IO       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

but  my  old  reconciling  philosophy,  such  as  it  is,  has  not 
forsaken  me  ;  and  well  it  may  remain,  for  God  only  knows 
what  I  should  have  done,  had  my  wife  been  seized  with  this 
illness  during  the  late  return  of  the  winds.  I  am  very  uneasy 
about  her  at  all  times  :  but  in  that  case,  considering  too 
I  might  have  avoided  bringing  her  into  such  a  situation, 
I  should  have  been  almost  out  of  my  wits.  The  vessel  in 
which  we  intended  to  resume  our  journey  (besides  being 
more  ornamental  than  solid,  and  never  yet  tried  by  a  winter 
passage,  except  three  days  of  one,  which  shattered  it  grievously) 
must  have  had  a  bad  time  of  it  :  and  it  is  the  opinion  of 
everybody  here,  both  doctors  and  seamen,  that  her  life  was 
not  to  be  answered  for  had  we  encountered  such  weather. 
So  I  look  at  her  in  her  snug,  unmoving  bed,  and  hope  and 
trust  she  is  getting  strength  enough  from  repose  to  renew 
her  journey  in  the  spring.  We  set  off  in  April. — As  to  myself, 
my  health  is  not  at  its  best,  but  it  is  not  at  its  worst.  I 
manage  to  write  a  little,  though  the  weather  has  been  against 
me.  I  read  more,  and  sometimes  go  to  the  Plymouth  public 
library,  where  a  gentleman  has  got  me  admission,  and  receive 
infinite  homage  from  Examinerions  in  these  parts,  who  have 
found  me  out.  They  want  me  to  meet  a  "hundred  admirers"' 
at  a  public  dinner  :  but  this,  you  know,  is  not  to  my  taste. 
I  tell  them  I  prefer  a  cup  of  tea  with  one  of  them  now  and 
then  in  private,  and  so  they  take  me  at  my  word,  and  I  find 
them  such  readers  as  I  like,  — good-natured,  cordial  men, 
with  a  smack  of  literature. — I  saw  the  announcement  of  the 
4th  part  ol  your  "  Fanchon  "  in  the  London  Mas^asine.  You 
cannot  imagine  how  the  look  of  your  name  delighted  me. 
You  must  know  I  had  a  design  upon  you  for  our  jtew  lialian 
work  when  I  bore  away  your  "  Fanchon."  So,  say  nothing 
about  it  (I  mean  to  myself),  but  wait  for  an  increase  of  your 
].nu-el  from  a  hand  you  love.  I  think  it  will  come  with  a 
good  and  profitable  effect  from  such  a  quarter. — Tell  Mrs. 
Gliddon,  albeit  she  retains  a  piece  of  them,  that  I  have  found 
the  cheeks  which  she  and  her  sister  left  in  Devonshire. 
There  is  a  profusion  of  such, — faces  that  look  built  up  of 
cream  and  roses,  and  as  good-natured  as  health  can  make 
them.     In  looking  for  lodgings  I  lit  also  upon  a  namesake  of 


LEIGH  HUN2  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    211 

hers,  no  relation,  who  spelt  her  name  with  a  Y.  I  suppoi;e  a 
hundred  and  fitcieth  cousin.  She  was  a  pleasant,  chattering 
old  woman  with  a  young  spirit,  who,  not  being  able  to  accom- 
modate us  herself,  recommended  her  neighbours  all  round, 
and  told  me  millions  of  things  in  a  breath. — Dear  Novello,  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  I  feel  the  kindness  of  my  friends, — kind- 
ness, of  which  I  know  that  you  and  Mrs.  Novello,  together 
with  Bessie  Kent,  have  been  the  souls.  God  bless  you  all. 
I  will  say  more  to  you  all  from  Italy.  You  will  see  my  hand 
in  the  Examine?-  again  in  a  week  or  two  (about  the  time  I 
could  have  written  on  the  subject  from  abroad)  with  a  few 
touches  for  Southey  and  the  Quarterly. — It  delights  me  to 
see  the  intimacy  there  is  between  you  and  Miss  K.  ;  she 
speaks  in  the  most  affectionate  terms  ot  you  and  your  wife, 
and  receives  all  the  solace  from  your  intercourse  which  I 
expected.  Take  a  dozen  hearty  shakes  ol  the  hand  from  me, 
dear  Novello,  and  give  (you  see  how  much  I  can  ask  of  you) 
as  many  kisses  of  the  same  description  to  Mrs.  Novello, 
unless  "  dear  Mr.  Arthur "  is  present  and  will  do  it  for  us. 
Convey  also  as  many  kisses  to  Mrs.  Gliddon  as  the  said  dear 
Mr.  Arthur  could  have  given  my  wife  had  she  been  at  youi 
Christmas  festivities,  taking  care  (as  in  the  iormer  instance) 
that  they  be  in  high  taste  and  most  long  and  loud. — And  so, 
Heaven  bless  you  all  and  make  us  to  send  many  good  wishes 
to  and  from  Italy  to  each  other  till  we  meet  again  face  to 
face. — Your  affectionate  friend,  Leigh  Hunt. 

P.S. — I  can  tell  you  nothing  of  the  Plymouth  neighbour- 
hood, being  generally  occupied  with  my  wife's  bedside  ;  but 
the  town  is  a  nice  clean  one  ;  and  after  being  at  Dartmouth 
I  felt  all  the  price  oi  Mirabeau's  gratitude,  who  when  he  came 
into  England,  and  saw  streets  paved,  fell  on  his  knees  and 
thanked  God  there  was  a  country  in  the  world  where  some 
regard  was  had  for  foot-passengers.  Dartmouth  is  a  kind  of 
sublime  Wapping,  being  a  set  01  narrow  muddy  streets  in  a 
picturesque  situation  on  the  side  of  a  hill.  The  people  too, 
poor  creatures,  are  as  dirty  there  as  can  be,  having  lost  all 
their  trade  ;  whereas  at  Plymouth  they  are  all  fat  and  flourish- 
ing.— Stonehouse  is  a  kind  of  separate  suburb  to  Plymouth 

P  2 


212        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

on  the  seashore. — My   wife's   kmdest  remembrances. — And 
niine  to  all  rememberers. 

To  M.  S.  N.     Percy  Street. 

March  2nd,  1822. 

Dear  Mary  Novello,— Your  letter  was  a  very  great 
pleasure  to  us  indeed,  though  it  made  us  very  impatient  to 
be  in  the  midst  of  our  friends.  We  are  like  Alahomet's  coffin 
at  present,  suspended  between  our  two  attractions  ;  but  the 
ship  will  carry  us  off  in  April,  and  turn  us  again  into  living 
creatures.  No  :  it  is  you  and  Novello  who  must  revive  us 
meanwhile.  Do  you  know,  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  come 
down  hei^e,  and  see  us  once  m.ore  before  we  go  ;  but  I  was 
afraid  you  would  think  there  was  no  end  of  my  presuming 
upon  your  regards.  Guess,  however,  what  pleasure  your  own 
intimation  gave  us.  You  must  fulfil  it,  now  you  have  given 
it.  No  excuse — no  sort  of  excuse.  Novello  must  tear  him- 
self from  all  the  boarding-school  ladies,  let  them  lay  hold  of 
the  flaps  of  his  coat  never  so  Potipharically.  There  are,  as 
you  say,  stages,  waggons,  carts,  trucks,  wheelbarrows,  &c.  : 
— there  are  also  kind  hearts  in  stout  bodies  :  and  finally,  our 
direction  is,  Mrs.  L'Amoureux,  Devil's  Poitit,  Stonehouse, 
Plymouth,  Devonshire. 

You  see  the  way  we  are  in,  in  this  Devon  of  a  county. 
Then  there  are  the  Devonshire  creams,  too  good  ;  Mount 
Edgecombe  here  close  at  our  elbow  looking  like  a  Hampstead 
in  the  sea  ;  boats  and  smooth  harbours  to  sail  about  in  ;  the 
finest  air  in  England,  with  a  little  bit  of  the  South  of  Europe 
in  it  ;  all  sorts  of  naval  curiosities  ;  sunshine  every  day,  and 
moonlight  too,  just  now,  every  night  ;  and  finally,  dear  friends, 
who  want  the  society  of  dear  friends  to  strengthen  them 
through  their  cares  and  delays.  I  must  not  forget,  that  the 
road  between  London  and  Plymouth  is  said  to  be  excellent, 
and  that  there  is  a  safety-coach  just  set  up,  which  boasts 
itself  to  be  worthy  of  the  road.  So  we  shall  expect  yoti  in 
the  course  of  the  week, — mind  that  I  shall  expect  a  letter  too, 
to  arrive  just  before  you.  You  must  send  it  oft"  on  Monday 
evening,  and  tollow  it  with  all  your  miglit  and  muscles.  At 
least  Novello  must  do  so.     I  forgot,  that  lac^aes  have  no 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     213 

niu!;cles.  They  have  only  eyes  and  h'mbs.  You  must  not 
talk  of  your  music,  till  Novello  is  here  to  inspii-e  a  pianoforte 
which  I  have  just  hired  for  a  month.  It  is  the  only  pleasure 
to  which  I  have  treated  myself,  and  without  him  I  find  it  but 
a  pain.  There  is  a  regiment  stationed  here,  who  have  a  band 
that  plays  morning  and  evening.  It  plays  Mozart  too,  and 
pretty  well,  only  I  longed  to  jog  their  elbows  the  other  day, 
when  they  came  to  the  2nd  part  of"  Batti,  batti."  However, 
It  was  so  beautiful,  that  I  could  not  stand  it  out ;  it  reminded 
me  of  so  many  pleasures,  that  between  you  and  me  and  two 
or  three  others,  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  go  out  of  the  place  to  hide  them.  .  ,  . 

Your  truly  atVcctionate  friend, 

L.  H. 

Stonehouse,  near  Plymouth,  March  26th,  1822. 
Dear  Mary  Novello, — Your  last  letter  was  a  great  dis- 
appointment to  me,  but  I  have  been  so  accustomed  to  dis- 
appointments of  late,  that  I  looked  out  for  the  pleasant  points 
it  contained  to  console  me,  and  for  these  I  am  very  thankful. 
I  should  have  written  before,  but  I  have  been  both  ill  and 
rakish,  which  is  a  very  bad  way  of  making  oneself  better,  at 
least  anywhere  but  in  old  places  with  old  iriends,  and  there 
it  does  not  always  do.  Remember  me  affectionately  to  the 
Lambs.  There  are  no  Lambs  here,  nor  Martin  Burneys 
neither;  "though  by  your  smiling  you  don't  seem  to  think 
so."  Smile  as  you  may,  I  find  I  cannot  comfortably  give  up 
anybody  whom  I  ha^e  been  accustomed  to  associate  with  the 
idea  of  friends  in  London  ;  and  besides,  there  are  some  men, 
like  Collins's  music,  "  by  distance  made  more  sweet ;"  which 
is  a  sentiment  I  beg  you  will  not  turn  to  ill  account.  How 
cheerful  I  find  myself  getting,  when  fancying  myself  in  Percy 
Street  !  I  hope  Mr.  Clarke  will  find  himself  quite  healthy 
again  in  Somersetshire.  He  ought  to  be  so,  considering  the 
prudence,  and  the  good  nature,  and  the  stout  legs,  and  the 
pleasant  little  bookeries  which  he  carries  about  with  him;  but 
then  he  must  renounce  those  devils  and  all  their  works,  the 
cheesemonger  and  pieman.  Perhaps  he  has  ;  but  his  com- 
plexion is  like  mine,  and  I  remember  what  a  world  of  back- 


214        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

sliding  and  nightmare  I  went  through  before  I  could  deliver 
myself  from  the  crumbling  ?/;/-crumblingness  of  Cheshire 
cheese,  and  that  profound  attraction,  the  under-crust  of  a  veal 
or  mutton  pie.     .     .     . 

It  is  kind  of  you  to  tell  me  of  the  gratification  which  Mr. 
Holmes  says  I  have  been  the  means  of  giving  him.  Tell  him 
I  hope  to  give  him  more  with  my  crotchets  before  I  die,  and 
receive  as  much  from  his  crotchets.  How  much  pleasure 
have  you  all  given  me  !  And  this  reminds  me  that  I  must 
talk  a  little  to  NovelJo  ;  so  no  more  at  present,  dear  black- 
headed,  good-hearted,  wilful  woman,  from  yours  most 
sincerely,  L.  H. 

The  next  two  letters  explain  themselves : — 

To  V.  N.  and  M.  S.  N. 

Genoa,  June  17th,  1822. 
Amici  veri  e  costanti,— Miss  Kent  will  have  told  you 
the  reason  why  I  did  not  write  on  Saturday.  The  boatman 
was  waiting  to  snatch  the  letters  out  of  my  hand  ;  and  besides 
hers,  I  was  compelled  to  write  three — one  to  my  brother  John, 
one  to  Mr.  Shelley,  and  another  to  Lord  B. — Neither  can  I 
undertake  to  write  you  a  long  letter  at  present,  and  I  must 
communicate  with  my  other  friends  by  driblets,  one  after  the 
other  ;  for  my  head  is  yet  very  tender,  though  I  promise  to 
get  more  health,  and  you  know  I  have  a  great  deal  of  writing 
to  think  about  and  to  do.  Be  good  enough  therefore  to  show 
this  letter  to  the  Gliddons,  the  Lambs,  Mr.  Coulson,  and  Mr. 
Hogg,  whom  I  also  request  to  show  you  theirs,  or  such  parts, 
of  them  as  contain  news  of  Italy  and  nothing  private.  Need 
I  add,  that  of  whatever  length  my  letters  may  be,  my  heart  is 
still  the  same  towards  you  ?  I  wish  you  could  know  how 
often  we  have  thought  and  talked  of  you.  You  know  my 
taste  for  travelling.  I  should  like  to  take  all  my  friends  with 
me,  like  an  Arabian  caravan.  Fond  as  I  am  of  home,  my 
home  is  dog-like,  in  the  persons — not  cat-like,  in  the  place  ; 
and  I  should  desire  no  better  Paradise,  to  all  eternity,  than 
gipsyizing  with  those  I  love  all  over  the  world.  But  1  must  tell 
you  news,  instead  of  olds.     I  wrote  the  preceding  page,  seated 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    215 

upon  some  boxes  on  deck,  surrounded  by  the  shipping  and 
beautiful  houses  Oi  Genoa  ;  an  awning  over  my  head,  a  fine 
air  in  my  lace,  and  only  comtortably  warm,  though  the  natives 
themselves  are  complaining  01"  the  heat.  (I  have  not  for- 
gotten, by  the  bye,  that  your  family,  Novello,  came  from 
Piedmont,  so  that  I  am  nearer  to  your  old  original  country, 
and  to  England  too,  than  I  was  two  or  three  weeks  ago.)  I 
was  called  down  from  c'.cck  to  Mrs.  Hunt,  who  is  very  weak ; 
a  winter  passage  would  certainly  have  killed  her.  Tlie 
"  Placidia  "  had  a  long  passage  for  winter  with  rough  winds  ; 
and  even  the  agitatrons  Ox  summer  travelling  are  almost  too 
much  for  my  wife  ;  nor  has  that  miserable  spitting  of  blood 
ceased  at  all.  But  we  hope  much  from  rest  at  Pisa.  As  for 
the  "  Jane,"  she  encountered  a  violent  storm  in  the  Guif  of 
Lyons  which  laid  her  on  her  side,  and  did  her  great  injury. 
Only  think — as  the  young  ladies  say.  Captain  Whitney  was 
destined  after  all  to  ianct  me  in  Italy,  for  the  "  Jane  "  is  here, 
and  he  accompanied  me  yesterday  evening  when  I  first  went 
onshore.  1  found  him  a  capital  aaw/zt-,  and  he  seemed  pleased 
to  perform  the  office.  My  sensations  on  first  touching  the 
shore  I  cannot  express  to  you.  Genoa  is  truly  la  supcrba. 
Imagine  a  dozen  Hampsteads  one  over  the  other,  intermingled 
with  trees,  rock,  and  white  streets,  houses,  and  palaces. 
The  harbour  lies  at  the  foot  in  a  semicircle,  with  a  quay  full 
of  good  houses  and  public  buildings.  Bathers,  both  male 
and  female,  are  constantly  going  by  our  vessel  of  a  morning 
in  boats  with  awnings,  both  to  a  floating  bath,  and  to  swim 
(/.  e.,  the  male)  in  the  open  sea.  They  return  dressing  them- 
selves as  they  go,  with  an  indelicacy,  or  else  delicacy,  very 
startling  to  us  Papalengis.  The  ladies  think  it  judicious  to 
conceal  their  absolute  ribs  ;  but  a  man  (whether  gentleman 
or  not  I  cannot  say)  makes  nothing  of  putting  on  his  shirt, 
as  he  returns  ;  or  even  of  ali'rescoing  it  without  one,  as  he 
goes;  and  people,  great  and  small,  arc  swimming  about  u.:.  in 
all  directions.  The  servant,  a  jolly  Plymouth  dam3el  (for 
Elizabeth  was  afraid  to  go  on),  thinks  it  necessarj'  to  let  us 
know  that  she  takes  no  manner  of  interest  in  such  spectacles. 
I  had  not  gone  through  a  street  or  two  on  shore  before  I  had 
the  luck  to  meet  a  religious  procession,  the  last  this  season. 


2i6        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Good  God  !  whr.t  a  thing  !  It  consisted,  impri)ins,  of  soldiers; 
secondly,  of  John  the  Baptist,  four  years  of  age,  in  a  sheep- 
skin ;  thirdly,  of  the  Virgin,  fi\-e  or  six  ditto,  with  a  crown  on 
her  head,  led  by  two  ladies  ;  fourthly,  friars— the  young  ones 
(with  some  fine  faces  among  them)  looking  as  if  they  were  in 
earnest,  and  rather  melancholy— the  others  apparently  getting 
worldly,  sceptical,  and  laughing  in  proportion  as  they  grew 
old  ;  fifthly,  a  painting  of  St.  Antonio  ;  sixthly,  monks  with 
hideous  black  cowls  all  over  their  faces,  with  holes  to  look 
.  through  ;  seventhly,  a  crucifix  as  large  as  life,  well  done 
(indeed,  eveiy  work  of  art  here  has  an  «/r  of  that  sort  if  nothing 
else)  ;  eighthly,  more  friars,  holding  large  wax-lights,  the  ends 
of  which  were  supported,  or  rather  pulled  down,  by  the  rag- 
gedest  and  dirtiest  boys  in  the  city,  who  collect  the  dropping 
wax  in  paper  and  sell  h  for  its  virtues;  ninthly,  music,  with 
violins  ;  tenthly  and  lastly,  a  large  piece  of  waxwork,  carried 
on  a  bier  by  a  large  number  of  friars,  who  were  occasionally 
encouraged  by  others  to  trot  stoutly  (for  a  shuffling  trot  is 
their  pace),  and  representing  St.  Antonio  paying  homage  to 
the  Virgin,  both  as  large  as  life,  surrounded  with  lights  and 
artificial  flowers,  and  seated  on  wax  clouds  and  cherubim. 
It  would  have  made  me  melancholy  had  not  the  novelty  of 
everything  and  the  enormous  quantity  of  women  of  all  ranks 
diverted  my  thoughts.  The  women  are  in  general  very  plain, 
and  the  men  too,  though  less  so  ;  but  when  you  do  meet  with 
fine  faces,  they  are  fine  indeed  ;  and  the  ladies  are  apt  to  have 
a  shape  and  air  very  consoling  for  the  want  of  better  features. 
But  my  trembling  hands,  as  well  as  the  paper,  tell  me  that  I 
must  leave  off,  and  that  I  have  gone,  like  Gilpin,  "farther 
than  I  intended."  God  bless  you,  dear  friends.  La  Sposa 
and  you  must  get  me  up  a  good  long  letter.  My  wife  sends 
her  best  remembrances.     Your  ever  afieclionate  friend, 

L.  H. 

To  V.  N.  and  M.  S.  N.     (By  favour  of  Mrs.  Williams.) 

Pisa,  September  9th,  1822. 
Dear,  kind  Friends,— The  lady  who  brings  you  this  is 
the  widow  of  Lieutenant  Willianis.     You  know  the  dreadful 
calamity  we  have  sustained  heie— an  unspeakable  one  to  me 


LEIGH  H  UNT  AND  HIS  LE  TTERS.     2 1 7 

AS  well  as  to  her  ;  but  we  are  on  every  account  obliged  and 
bound  to  be  as  patient  as  possible  under  it.  The  nature  of 
the  friends  we  have  lost  at  once  demands  it  and  renders  it 
hard.  I  have  reason  to  be  thankful  that  I  have  suffered  so 
much  in  my  life,  since  the  habit  renders  endurance  more 
tolerable  in  the  present  instance.  Think  of  me  as  of  one 
going  on  altogether  very  well,  and  who  still  finds  a  reason  in 
everything  for  reposing  on  those  who  love  him. 

Mrs.  Williams  wishes  to  know  you,  and  from  what  I  have 
seen  and  heard  of  her  is  worthy  to  do  so.  My  departed 
friend  had  a  great  regard  for  her.  She  is  said  to  be  an 
elegant  musician,  but  she  has  not  had  the  heart  to  touch  an 
instrument  since  I  have  known  her.  Distance  and  other 
scenes  will  doubtless  show  her  the  necessity  of  breaking 
through  this  tender  dread.  There  is  something  peculiar  in 
her  history  which  she  will  one  day  perhaps  inform  you  of,  but 
I  do  not  feel  myself  at  liberty  to  disclose  it,  tliough  it  does  her 
honour.  When  she  relates  it,  you  will  do  justice  to  my 
reasons  for  keeping  silence.  I  envy  her  the  sight  of  you,  the 
hearing  of  the  piano,  the  sharing  of  your  sofa,  the  bookcase 
on  the  right  hand,  the  stares  of  my  young  old  acquaintances, 
&c.  But  I  still  hope  to  see  the  best  part  of  these  movables 
in  Italy.  I  dare  not  dwell  upon  the  break-up  that  was  given 
here  to  all  the  delights  I  had  anticipated.  Lord  B.  is  very 
kind,  and  I  may  possibly  find  a  new  acquaintance  or  two  that 
will  be  pleasant ;  but  what  can  fill  up  the  place  that  such  a 
man  as  S.  occupied  in  my  heart  ?  Thank  God  it  has  places 
still  occupied  by  other  friends,  or  it  would  be  well  content  to 
break  at  once  against  the  hardness  of  this  toiling  world.  But 
let  me  hold  on.  It  is  a  good  world  still  while  it  is- capable  of 
producing  such  friends.  I  must  also  tell  you,  to  comfort  you 
for  all  this  dreary  talking,  that  we  have  abundance  of  mate- 
rials for  our  new  work,  the  last  packet  for  the  first  number  of 
which  goes  to  England  this  week. 

I  can  also  work  in  this  climate  better  than  in  England,  and 
my  brother  and  I  are  such  correspondents  again  as  we  ought 
to  be.  This  is  much.  My  wife  also  is  much  better,  and  I 
hear  good  accounts  of  her  sister  and  other  dear  friends.  I 
had  heard  of  the  Lambs  and  their  ultra  voyages,  with  what 


2i8        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

pleasure  at  first  and  with  what  melancholy  at  last,  you  may 
guess.  Remember  me  to  all  the  kind  friends  who  send  me 
//z£'/V  remembrances— Mr.  Clarke,  Mr.  Holmes,  and  particu- 
larly the  Gliddons,  whom  I  recollect  with  a  tenderness  which 
they  will  give  me  credit  for  when  they  see — what  they  shall 
see,  to  wit,  the  letter  which  accompanies  the  present  one,  and 
which  I  beg  you  will  give  them. 

The  work  will  very  speedily  be  out  now,  entirely  made  up 
by  Lord  B.,  dear  S.,  and  myself.  I  refer  you  to  it  for  some 
account  of  Pisa. 

God  bless  you.  A  kiss  for  you,  Mary,  and  a  shake  of  the 
hand  for  you,  Vincent. — Your  affectionate  friend, 

L.  H. 

P.S. — We  drank  Novello's  health  on  his  birthday.  Be  sure 
that  we  always  drink  healths  on  birthdays. 

The  next  seven  are  still  from  Italy,  the  concluding  one 
showing  how  strong  was  his  yearning  to  be  back  in  dear 
old  England. 

To  V.  N.     (By  favour  of  Mrs.  Shelley.) 

Albaro,  July  24th,  1823. 
My  dear  Novello, — Mary  Wollstonecraft's  daughter 
brings  you  this  letter.  I  know  you  would  receive  her  with  all 
your  kindness  and  respect  for  that  designation  alone  ;  but 
there  are  a  hundred  other  reasons  why  you  will  do  so,  includ- 
ing her  own  extraordinary  talents  (which,  at  the  same  time,  no 
woman  can  be  less  obtrusive  with),  the  pleasure  you  will  find 
in  her  society,  and  last  not  least,  her  love  of  music  and  regard 
for  a  certain  professor  of  ditto — but  I  have  spoken  of  this 
introduction  already.  I  do  not  send  you  a  long  letter,  for 
reasons  given  in  the  same  place  ;  but  I  trust  it  will  be  as  good 
as  a  long  letter  in  its  returns  to  me,  because  it  sets  you  the 
example  of  writing  a  short  one  when  you  cannot  do  more. 
How  I  envy  Mary  Shelley  the  power  of  taking  you  all  by  the 
hands  and  joining  your  kind-hearted  circle  !  But  I  am  there 
very  often  myself,  I  assure  you  ;  invisible,  it  is  true,  and 
behind  the  curtain  :  but  it  is  possible,  you  know,  to  be  behind 
a  curtain  and  yet  be  very  intensely  present  besides.     But  do 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    219 

not  let  any  one  consider  Mary  S.  in  the  light  of  a  Blue,  of 
which  she  has  a  great  horror,  but  as  an  unaffected  person, 
with  her  faults  and  good  qualities  like  the  rest  of  us  ;  the 
former  extremely  corrected  by  all  she  has  seen  and  endured, 
the  latter  inclining  her,  like  a  wise  and  kind  being,  to  receive 
all  the  consolation  which  the  good  and  the  kind  can  give  her. 
She  will  be  grave  with  your  gravities  and  laugh  as  much  as 
you  please  with  your  merriments.  For  the  rest,  she  is  as 
quiet  as  a  mouse,  and  will  drink  in  as  much  Mozart  and 
Paesiello  as  you  choose  to  afford  her,  with  an  enjoyment  that 
you  might  take  for  a  Quaker's,  unless  you  could  contrive 
some  day  to  put  her  into  a  state  of  pain,  when  she  will 
immediately  grow  as  eloquent  and  say  as  many  fine 
pleasurable  things  as  she  can  discourse  in  a  novel. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Novello-  From  Florence  I  shall  send 
you  some  music,  especially  what  you  wanted  in  Rome, 

From  this  place  I  can  send  you  nothing  except  a  ring  of 
my  hair,  which  you  must  wear  for  the  sake  of  your  affectionate 
friend, 

L.  H. 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Novello  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gliddon,//;///'/;;^^.* 
secondly,  to  Mrs.  Novello  alone.  (Favoured  by  Mrs. 
Shelley.) 

Albaro,  July  25th,  1823. 
Dear  Friends, — I  send  you  these  modicums  of  dis- 
tributive justice  first  because,  though  now  getting  well 
again,  I  have  been  unwell,  and  secondly,  because  1  have  so 
much  to  do  with  my  pen  just  now  that,  as  I  wish  to  keep  a 
head  on  my  shoulders  for  all  your  sakes,  I  am  sure  you  would 
not  willingly  let  me  tax  it  beyond  my  strength.  I  shall 
answer,  however,  whatever  letters  you  have  been  kind  enough 
to  send  me  by  the  box  separately  and  at  proper  length.  But 
lo  !  the  box  has  not  yet  arrived,  and  when  it  will  arrive  hox 
knows.  Meanwhile  let  me  introduce  to  you  all  in  a  body  the 
dear  friend  who  brings  you  this  letter,  and  with  whom  you 
are  already  acciuainted  in  some  measure  both  privately  and 
publicly.  You  will  show  her  all  the  kindness  and  respect  in 
your  power,  I  am  sure,  for  her  husband's  sake,  and  for  her 


2  20        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

mother's  sake,  and  for  my  sake,  and  for  her  own.  I  am 
getting  grave  here.  So  now  we  are  all  in  company  again  I 
will  rouse  my  spirits  and  attack  you  separately ;  and  first  for 
"Wilful  Woman:'-'— 

Mary  Novello, 
I  know  not  your  fellow 
For  having  your  way 
Both  by  night  and  by  day. 

It  was  thus  I  once  began  a  letter  in  verse  to  the  said  Mary 
Novello,  which  happened  not  to  be  sent  ;  and  it  is  thus  I  now 
begin  a  letter  in  prose  to  her  because  it  is  of  course  as 
applicable  as  ever — is  it  not,  thou  "wilful  woman".?  (Here 
I  look  full  in  the  face  of  the  same  M.  N.,  shaking  my  head 
at  her  :  upon  which  she  looks  ditta  at  me — for  we  cannot 
say  ditto  of  a  lady — and  shakes  her  head  in  return,  impru- 
dently denying  the  fact  with  her  good-humoured,  twinkling 
eyes  and  her  laughing  mouth,  which,  how  it  ever  happened  to 
become  wilful,  odd  only  knows — odd  is  to  lae  read  in  a  genteel 
Bond  Street  style,  Novello  knows  how.)  So  I  understand. 
Wilful,  that  you  sometimes  get  up  during  the  perusal  of 
passages  of  these  mine  epistles  and  unthinkingly  insist  that 
tired  ladies  who  have  a  regard  for  you  should  eat  their  dinners, 
as  if  the  regard  for  me,  Wilful,  is  not  to  swallow  up  everv- 
thing — appetite,  hunger,  sickness,  faintness,  and  all.  Do 
you  HEAR.?  The  best  passage  in  all  Mr.  Reynolds's  plays  is 
one  that  Mary  Shelley  has  reminded  me  of.  It  is  where  a 
gentleman  traveller  and  the  governor  of  a  citadel  compliment 
each  other  in  a  duet,  dancing,  I  believe,  at  the  same  tune  :— 

DaJicing  (governor ! 
Pleasing  Traveller  ! 

Now  you  must  know  that  the  Attorney-General  once,  in  an 
indictment  for  libel,  had  the  temerity  to  designate  me  as  "  a 
yeoman" — "Leigh  Hunt,  yeoman."  However,  the  word 
rhymes  to  "  Woman,"  which  is  a  pleasing  response  :  so  I 
shall  end  my  present  epistle  with  imagining  you  and  me  on 
a  Twelfth  Night  harmoniously  playing  at  cross  purposes,  and 
singing  to  one  another — 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    221 

Wilful  Woman  ! 
Revengeful  Yeoman  ! 

God  bless  the  hearts  of  you  both. — Your  affectionate 
friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

P.S. — I  send  you  a  ring  of  my  hair,  value  2s.  8d.  When 
I  can  afford  another  such  splendid  sum  I  will  try  and  get 
some  little  i.iscription  engraved  on  it,  and  would  have  done 
so  indeed  already  had  I  thought  of  it  in  time.  I'd  have  you 
to  know,  at  the  same  time,  that  the  gold  is  "  right  earnest," 
which,  if  you  mention  the  sum,  I'd  be  glad  you'll  also  let  the 
curious  inquirers  understand.  So  don't  be  ashamed,  now, 
but  wear  it.     If  you  don't  YW.  pinch  back. 

The  ring  tvas  worn  by  "  Mary  Novello,"  and  the  name 
of"  Leigh  Hunt"  was  engraved  upon  the  small  piece  of 
"gold" as  an  "  inscription."  It  is  now  in  our  possession, 
mounted  on  a  card,  bearing  these  memorial  lines  : — • 

SONNET  ON  A  RING  OF  LEIGH  HUNT'S  HAIR. 

Nor  coal,  nor  jet,  nor  raven's  wing  more  black 
Than  this  small  crispy  plait  of  ebon  hair  : 
And  well  I  can  remember  when  the  rare 

Young  poet-head,  in  eager  thought  thrown  back, 

Boie  just  such  clusters  ;  ere  the  whitening  rack 
Of  years  and  toil,  devoted  to  the  care 
For  human  weal,  had  blanch'd  and  given  an  air 

Of  snow-bright  halo  to  the  mass  once  black. 

In  public  service,  in  high  contemplations, 
In  poesy's  excitement,  in  the  earnest 

Culture  of  divinest  aspirations. 

Thy  sable  curls  grew  grey  ;  and  now  thou  turnest 

Them  to  radiant  lustre,  silver  golden, 

Touch'd  by  that  Light  no  eye  hath  yet  beholden. 

To  M.  S.  N. 

Albaro,  August  21st,  1823. 
Wilful  Woman  ! — And  so  you  have  got  a  great,  large, 


222        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

big  Shacklewell  house,  and  a  garden,  and  good-natured  trees 
in  it  (like  those  in  my  Choice) — 

And  Clarke  and  Mr.  Holmes  are  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  ; 

and  you  are  looking  after  the  "  things,"  and  you  are  all  to  be 
gay  and  merry,  and  I  am  not  to  be  there.  Well,  I  don't 
deserve  it,  whatever  Fate  may  say,  and  it  shall  go  hard  but 
I'll  have  my  revenge,  and  ;;//  house,  and  my  garden  and 
things,  all  at  Florence  ;  and  friends,  fair  and  brown  too,  will 
come  to  see  me  there,  though  you  won't ;  and  I'll  peep,  with- 
out being  seen,  from  forth  tny  alleys  green. 

We  go  off  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  send  you  such  accounts 
as  shall  make  you  ready  to  ask  Clara's  help  (she  being  the 
bigger)  to  toss  you  all,  as  she  threatened,  "  out  of  the  windows." 
There  is  nobody  that  will  do  it  with  so  proper  and  grave  a 
face.  So  there's  for  your  Shacklewell  house  and  your  never- 
not-coming-at-all  to  Italy.  And  now  you  shan't  get  a  word 
more  out  of  me  for  the  present,  excepting  that  I  am  your  old, 
grateful,  and  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Mrs,  Hunt  joins  in  love  to  all  the  old  circle. 

To  V.  N.  (favoured  by  Mrs.  Payne.) 

Florence,  Sept.  9th,  1823. 
My  dear  Novello, — You  must  not  imagine  I  am  going 
to  send  you  all  the  pleasant  people  I  may  happen  to  meet 
with  ;  but  I  could  not  resist  the  chance  ol  introducing  you  to 
the  grand-daughter  of  Dr.  Burney,  daughter  of  Captain 
Cooke's  Burney,  niece  of  Evelina's  and  Camilla's  Eurney, 
friend  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb,  and  a  most  lively,  refresh- 
ing, intelligent,  good-humoured  person  to  boot,  who  is  also  a 
singer  and  pianoforte-player.  All  this,  at  least,  she  seems  to 
me,  in  my  gratitude  for  having  met  with  a  countrywoman 
who  could  talk  to  me  of  my  old  friends.  I  cannot  write 
farther,  for  I  hear  the  voices  of  gentlemen  who  have  come  to 
go  with  me,  to  take  leave  ol  her  and  her  husband  :  but 
whether  she  happens  to  bring  this  letter  or  not,  I  could  not 
help  giving  you  the  chance  I  speak  oi,  nor  her  that  o.  know- 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    223 

ing  you  and  yours,  your  music,  &c.,  which  is  the  best  return 
I  can  make  her  for  the  recreation  she  has  afforded  me  :  and, 
besides,  this  will  show  you  we  were  going  on  well.  Florence, 
besides  its  other  goods,  has  libraries,  bookstalls,  and  Cock- 
ney meadows  ;  and  we  begin  to  breathe  again.  I  hope  by 
this  time  you  and  Mrs.  Shelley  have  shaken  cordial  hands. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 
L.  H. 

To  V.  N.  and  M.  S.  N. 

Florence,  January  9th,  1824. 

Happy  New  Years  for  all  of  us  :  and  may  we  all,  as  we  do 
now,  help  to  make  them  happier  to  one  another. 

Vincenzo  mio,  I  have  at  length  found  out  the  secret  of 
making  you  write  a  whole  letter.  It  is  to  set  you  upon  some 
painful  task  for  your  friends  ;  so  having  the  prospect  now 
before  me  of  getting  out  of  my  troubles,  I  think  I  must  con- 
trive to  fall  into  some  others,  purely  in  order  that  you  maybe 
epistolary.  Dear  Novello,  how  heartily  I  thank  you  !  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  had  written  a  long  letter  to  my  brother 
in  answer  to  his  second  one,  in  which  I  had  agreed  to  submit 
the  whole  matter  to  arbitration,  and  had  called  upon  your 
friendship  to  enter  into  it,  especially  in  case  you  had  any 
fears  that  you  should  be  obliged  in  impartiality  to  be  less  for 
me  than  you  wished.  His  third  letter  has  done  away  with 
the  necessity  of  sending  this,  and  he  will  show  you  the  letter 
I  have  written  to  him  instead.  All  will  now  proceed  amicably ; 
but  if  you  think  me  a  little  too  inordinate  and  haggling,  I  beg 
you  first  of  all  to  count  the  heads  of  seven  of  your  children 
with  their  mother  besides  them.  I  have  no  other  arithmetic 
in  my  calculations.  But  I  will  not  return  to  my  melancholy 
now  that  you  have  helped  to  brighten  life  for  me  again.  I 
assure  you  it  was  new-burnished  on  New  Year's  Day,  for  then 
I  received  all  your  letters  at  once.  .  .  .  But  enough.  Judge 
only  from  what  a  load  of  care  you  have  helped  to  relieve  me, 
and  take  your  pride  and  pleasure  accordingly,  you,  you — you 
Vincent,  you.  Observe,  however : — all  this  is  not  to  hinder  from 
the  absolute  necessity  and  sworn  duty  o  coming  to  see  us  as 
you  promised.     /<-  will  be  sheer  inhwiianuy  ij  you  do  not; 


2  24        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

always  excepting-  it  would  make  you  ill  to  be  away  from  home 
(Mary  Shelley  will  laugh  to  hear  this)  ;  but  then  you  are  to 
have  companions,  who  will  also  be  very  inhuman  to  all  of  us, 
if  they  do  not  do  their  duty.  The  cheating  of  the  Italians  in 
conjunction  with  all  the  other  circumstances  have  made  us 
frightened,  or  rather  agreeably  economical  (a  little  difference  !). 
We  have  taken  wood,  oil,  and  every  possible  thing  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  servants,  locking  it  up  and  doling  it  out,  and 
even  (oh,  new  and  odd  paradise  of  sensation  !)  chuckling  over 
the  crazie  andqiiaitriiii  that  we  save.  I  tell  you  this  to  show 
you  how  well  we  prepare  for  visitors.  But  wine,  and  very 
pleasant  wine  too,  and  wholesome,  is  as  cheap  in  this  country 
as  small  beer  ;  and  then  there  will  be  ourselves,  and  your 
selves,  and  beautiful  walks  and  weather,  and  novelty,  and 
God  knows  how  many  pleasures  besides,  for  all  are  comprised 
in  the  thought  of  seeing  friends  from  En(^lund.  So  mind— I 
will  not  hear  of  the  least  shadow  of  the  remotest  approach  to 
the  smallest  possible  distant  hint  of  a  put-olT.  All  the  "  Gods 
in  Council"  would  rise  up  and  say,  "  This  is  a  shame  !"  So 
in  your  next  tell  me  when  you  are  coming.  I  must  only 
premise  that  it  must  be  when  the  snows  are  well  off  the 
mountain  road.  You  see  by  this  how  early,  as  well  as  how 
certainly,  I  expect  you.  I  must  leave  off  and  rest  a  little  ; 
for  I  have  had  much  letter-writing  after  much  other  writing, 
and  I  am  going  to  have  much  other  writing.  But  my  head 
and  spirits  have  both  bettered  with  my  prospects  ;  at  least 
the  latter  have,  and  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  the  former 
will,  though  I  shall  have  niore  original  composition  to  do 
than  of  late.  But  I  shall  work  with  certainties  upon  me,  in 
my  old  paper,  and  not  be  tied  down  to  paiticular  dimensions. 
As  you  have  seen  all  my  infirmities,  I  must  tell  you  of  a 
virtue  of  mine,  which  is,  that  having  no  pianoforte  at  present, 
I  lent,  with  rage  and  benevolence  in  my  heart,  all  the  new 
music  you  sent  me  to  a  lady  who  is  going  to  Rome.  It  is 
very  safe,  or  you  may  believe  my  benevolence  would  not 
have  gone  so  far.  Besides,  it  was  to  be  played  and  sung  by 
the  Pope's  own  musicians.  Think  of  that,  thou  chorister.  I 
shall  have  it  back  before  you  come,  and  shall  lay  aside  a 
particular  hoard  to  hire  an  instrument  for  your  playing  it 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    225 

Thank  Charles  Clarke  for  his  letter,  and  tell  him  that  he  will 
be  as  welcome  in  Italy  as  he  was  in  my  less  romantic  prison 
of  Horsemonger  Gaol.  I  am  truly  obliged  to  him,  also,  for 
his  kindness  to  Miss  Kent's  book,  and  shall  write  to  tell  him 
so  after  I  have  despatched  a  few  articles  for  the  Examiner — • 
all  which  articles,  observe  also,  are  written  to  my  friends. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt, 

To  Mrs.  Novello. 

Oh  thou  wilful — for  art  thou  not  wilful  ?  Charles  Clarke 
says  no,  and  that  your  name  is  Brougham;  "but  I,  Mr., 
calls  him  Brufifam" — but  art  thou  not  always  wilful  woman, 
and  oughtest  thou  not  for  ever  to  remain  so,  seeing  that  thy 
vvill  is  bent  upon  "  inditing  a  good  matter,"  and  that  thou 
sittest  up  at  midnight  with  an  infinitely  virtuous  profligacy  to 
write  long  and  kind  and  delightful  letters  to  exiles  on  their 
birthdays .''  Do  not  think  me  ungrateful  for  not  having 
answered  it  sooner.  It  is  not,  as  you  might  suppose,  my 
troubles  that  have  hindered  me,  saving  and  except  that  the 
quantity  of  writing  that  I  have  had,  or  rather  the  eftect  which 
writing  day  after  day  has  upon  me,  made  me  put  off  an 
answer  which  I  wished  to  be  a  very  long  one.  Had  I  not 
wished  that,  I  should  have  written  sooner ;  and  wishing  it  or 
not,  I  ought  to  have  done  so  ;  but  your  last  letter  shows  that 
you  can  afford  to  forgive  me.  Latterly,  I  will  confess  that 
the  pitch  of  trouble  to  which  my  feelings  had  been  wrought 
made  it  more  difficult  for  me  than  usual  to  come  into  the 
company  of  my  friends,  wnth  the  air  they  have  always  in- 
spired me  with  ;  but  I  bring  as  well  as  receive  a  pleasure 
now,  and  wish  I  could  find  some  means  of  showing  you  how 
grateful  I  am  for  all  your  sendings,  those  in  the  box  included. 
Good  God  !  I  have  never  yet  thanked  you  even  for  that. 
But  you  know  how  late  it  must  have  come.  My  wife  has 
been  brilliant  ever  since  in  the  steel  bracelets,  which  she  finds 
equally  useful  and  ornamental.  They  were  the  joy  and 
amazement  of  an  American  artist  (now  in  Rome),  who  had 
never  been  in  England,  and  who  is  wise  enough  to  be  proud 
of  the   superior   workmanship   of  his  cousins  the  Enghsh, 

Q 


2  26        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

though  a  sturdy  Republican.  (Speaking  of  Rome,  pray  tell 
Novello  to  send  me  the  name  of  the  musical  work  which  he 
wanted  there,  which  I  have  put  away  in  some  place  so  very 
safe  that  it  is  undiscoverable.)  The  needles  also  were  more 
than  welcome.  As  to  the  pencils,  I  made  a  legitimate  use  of 
my  despotic  right  as  a  father  of  a  family,  and  appropriated 
them  almost  all  to  myself  "  Consider  the  value  cf  such 
timber  here."  Here  the  needles  don't  prick,  and  the  pencils 
do  :  and  as  to  elastic  bracelets,  you  may  go  to  a  ball,  if  you 
please,  in  a  couple  of  rusty  iron  hoops  made  to  fit.  Do  you 
know  that  I  had  half  a  mind  to  accept  your  ofier  of  coming 
over  to  take  us  to  England,  purely  that  you  might  go  back 
without  us — including  your  stay  in  the  meantime.  You  must 
not  raise  such  images  to  exiles  without  realizing  them.  I 
hope  some  day  or  other  to  be  able  to  take  some  opportunity 
of  running  over  during  a  summer,  though  Mary  Shelley  will 
laugh  at  this,  and  I  know  not  what  Marianne  Hunt  would 
say  to  it.  Profligate  fellow  that  I  om  !  I  never  slept  out  of 
my  bed  ever  since  I  was  married,  but  two  nights  at  Syden- 
ham. As  to  coming  to  England  to  stay,  it  is  quite  out  of  the 
Cjuestion  for  either  of  us  at  present.  The  winters  would  kill 
her  side  and  my  head.  On  the  other  hand,  the  vessel  in  her 
side  is  absolutely  closing  again  here  in  winter  time,  and  our 
happier  prospects  in  other  respects  render  the  pi'ospect 
happier  in  this.  Cannot  you  as  well  as  C.  C.  come  with 
Novello?  Bring  some  of  the  children  with  you.  Why  can- 
not you  all  come — you  and  Statia,  and  Mrs.  Williams,  and 
Mary  S.,  and  Miss  Kent,  and  Holmes  (to  study),  and  every 
other  possible  and  impossible  body?  Write  me  another 
good,  kind,  long  letter,  to  show  that  you  forgive  me  heartily 
for  not  writing  myself,  and  tell  me  all  these  and  a  thousand 
other  things.  I  think  of  you  all  every  day  more  or  less,  but 
particularly  on  such  days  as  birthdays  and  Twelfthdays. 
We  drank  your  health  the  other  night  sitting  in  our  country 
solitude,  and  longing  iiijiiiitcly,  as  we  often  do,  for  a  larger 
party — but  always  a  party  from  home.  What  a  birthnight 
you  gave  me  !  These  are  laurels  indeed  !  Tell  me  in  your 
next  how  all  the  children  are,  not  forgetting  Clara,  who 
threatened  in  a  voice  of  tender  acquiescence  to  throw  us  all 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    227 

out  of  the  window,  herself  inckided.  All  our  children  con- 
tinue extremely  well,  little  Vincent  among  them,  who  is  one 
of  the  liveliest  yet  gentlest  creatures  in  the  world. 

Pray  remember  me  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  H.  I  would  give 
anything  at  present  to  hear  one  of  her  songs  ;  and  I  suppose 
she  would  give  anything  to  have  a  little  of  my  sunshine. 
Such  is  the  world  !  But  it  makes  one  love  and  help  one 
another  too.     So  love  me  and  help  me  still,  dear  friends  all. 

L.  H. 

To  M.  S.  N. 

Florence,  November  13th,  1824. 
Oh,  Wilful! — Am  I  to  expect  another  birthday  letter? 
If  so  (but  two  such  birthdays  can  hardly  come  together),  I 
will  do  my  best  to  be  grateful,  and  send  you  a  mirth-day 
letter.  Do  you  know  that  however  dilTerently-shaped  you 
may  regard  yourself  at  present  at  Shacklewell,  here  at 
Florence  you  are  a  square  f  and  that  I  am  writing  at  present 
in  one  of  your  second  stories  at  Mrs.  Brown's  lodgings,  who 
can  only  hnd  me  this  hnlf sheet  of  paper  to  write  upon.?  I 
should  have  thought  better  of  you,  considering  you  have  the 
literary  interest  so  much  at  heart.  Your  name  is  Sancta 
Maria  Novella^  and  there  is  a  church  in  a  corner  of  you, 
which  makes  a  figure  in  the  opening  of  Boccaccio's  "  De- 
cameron." So  adieu,  dear  Sancta. — Ever  yours,  sick  or 
merry, 

L.  H. 

To  Mrs.  Novello,  to  Mrs.  Gliddon,  to  "dear  Arthur." 

Florence,  September  7th,  1825. 
The  Ladies  first— To  Mrs.  Novello. 
Madam, — My  patience  is  not  so  easily  worn  out  as  your 
Wilfulship  imagines.  I  allow  you  have  seen  me  impatient  of 
late  on  one  subject  ;  but  I  beg  you  to  believe  I  confine  my 
want  of  philosophy  to  that  single  point.  That  is  the  wolf  in 
my  harmony.  On  all  other  matters  (a  three-years-and-a-hali's 
dilapidation  excepted)  you  will  find  me  the  same  man  I  was 
ever — half  melancholy  and  half  mirth — and  gratefully  ready 
to  forego  the  one  whenever  in  the  compsjiy  of  my  friends. 

Q 


2  28        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

So,   madam,   I'd  have   you   to   know  that   I  am  extremely 
patient,  and  that  if  I  do  not  take  courage  it  is  because  I  have 
it  ah-eady ;  and  you  must  farther  know,  madam,  that  we  do 
not  mean  to  Hve  at  Plymouth,  but  at  a  reasonable  distance 
from  town  ;  and  also  that  if  we  cannot  get  a  cottage  to  go 
into  immediately  we  shall  go  for  a  month  or  two  into  metro- 
politan lodgings  :  itan,  that  we  shall  all  be  glad  to  hear  of 
any  cottage  twenty  or  twenty- five  miles  off,  or  any  lodgings 
in  any  quiet  and  cheap  street  in  London ;  farthermore,  that, 
besides    taking    courage,    we    have    taken '  the    coach   from 
Florence  to  Calais  ;  and  finally,  that  we  set  off  next  Saturday, 
the  loth  instant,  and  by  the  time  you  receive  this  shall  be  at 
the  foot  of  the  Alps.     "  I  think  here  be  proofs."     We  go  by 
Parma,  Turin,  Mont  Cenis,  Lyons,  and  Paris.     Mrs.  Shelley 
will   be  better  able  to  tell  you  where  a  letter  can  reach  us 
than  I  can — yet  a  calculation,  too,  might  be  made,  for  we 
travel  forty  miles  a  day,  and  stop  four  days  out  of  the  thirty- 
one  allotted  to  us  :  one  at  Modena,  one  at  Turin,  one  at 
Lyons,  one  at  Paris.     Can  we  do  anything  for  you  ?     I  wish 
I  could  bring  you  some  bottled  sunshine  for  your  fruit-trees. 
It  is  a  dmg  we  are  tired  of  here.     Mud— mud — is  our  object ; 
cold  v/eather  out  of  doors,  and  warm  hearts  within.     By  the 
way,  as  you  know  nothing  about  it,   I  must  tell  you  that 
somebody  has  been  dedicating  a  book  to  me  under  the  title 
of  "A  Day  in  Stowe  Gardens"  (send  and  buy  it  for  my  sake), 
and  it  is  a  very  pretty  book,  though  with  the  airs  natural  to 
a  dedicatee,  I  have  picked  some  verbal  faults  with  it  here 
and  there.     What  I  like  least  is  the  story  larded  with  French 
cookery.     Some  of  the  others  made  me  shed  tears,  which  is 
very  hard  upon  me,  from  an  Old  Boy  (for  such  on  inspection 
you  will  find  the  author  to  be)  ;  I  should  not  have  minded  it 
had  it  been  a  woman.     The  Spanish  Tale  ends  with  a  truly 
dramatic  surprise  ;  and  the  Magdalen  Story  made  me  long 
to  hug  all  the  parties  concerned,  the  writer  included.     So  get 
the   book,  and  like  it,  as  you  regard  the  sympathies  and 
honours  of  yours,  ever  cordially, 

L.  H. 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    229 

To  Mrs.  Glidclon. 

Well,  madam,  and  as  to  you.  They  tell  me  you  are  getting 
rich  :  so  you  are  to  suppose  that  during  my  silence  I  have 
been  standing  upon  the  dignity  of  my  character,  as  a  pooi 
patriot,  and  not  chosen  to  risk  a  suspicion  of  my  inde- 
pendence. Being  "Peach-Face,"  and  "Nice-One,"  and 
missing  your  sister's  children,  I  might  have  ventured  to 
express  my  regard  ;  but  how  am  I  to  appear  before  the  rich 
lady  and  the  Sultana  ?  I  suppose  you  never  go  out  but  in  a 
covered  litter,  forty  blacks  clearing  the  way.  Then  you  enter 
the  bath,  all  of  perfumed  water,  and  beautiful  attendant 
slaves,  like  full  moons  :  after  which  you  retire  into  a  delicious 
apartment,  walled  with  trellis-work  of  mother-of-pearl,  covered 
with  myrtle  and  roses,  and  whistling  with  a  fountain  ;  and 
clapping  your  hands,  ten  slaves  more  beautiful  than  the  last 
sen-e  up  an  unheard-of  dinner  :  after  which,  twenty  slaves, 
much  more  beautiful  than  those,  play  to  you  upon  lutes  ;  after 
which  the  Sultan  comes  in,  upon  which  thirty  slaves,  infinitely 
more  beautiful  than  the  preceding,  sing  the  most  exquisite 
compliments  out  of  the  Eastern  poets,  and  a  pipe,  forty  yards 
long,  and  fresh  from  the  Divan,  is  served  up,  burning  with 
the  Sultan's  mixture,  and  the  tonquin  bean.  However,  I 
shall  come  for  a  chop. 

Dear  Mr.  Arthur,— I  am  called  off  in  the  midst  of  my 
oriental  description,  and  have  only  time  to  say  that  I  thank 
you  heartily  for  your  zeal  and  kindness  in  my  behalf,  and  am 
sure  Novello  could  not  have  chosen  a  second  more  agreeable 
to  myself,  whatever  the  persons  concerned  may  resolve  upon, 
I  hope  soon  to  shake  you  by  the  hand. 

The  following  one  affords  a  specimen  of  the  manful 
way  in  which  Leigh  Hunt  dealt  with  depression,  and 
strove  to  be  cheery  for  his  friends'  sake,  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  their  friendship  for  him  : — 

To  V.  N.  and  M.  S.  N. 

Paris,  October  8th,  1825. 
Dear  Friends, — I  can  write  you  but  a  word.     We  shall 


2 so        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

be  in  London  next  Thursday,  provided  there  is  room  in  the 
steamboat,  as  we  understand  there  certainly  will  be  ;  but  we 
are  not  certain  of  the  hour  of  arrival.  They  talk  here  at  the 
agency  office  of  the  boats  leaving  Calais  at  two  in  the  morn- 
ing (night-time).  If  so,  we  ought  to  be  in  town  at  one. 
This,  however,  is  not  to  be  depended  on  ;  and  there  will  not 
be  time  to  write  to  you  again.  The  best  way,  I  think,  would 
be  to  send  a  note  for  us  (by  the  night  post)  to  the  place  where 
the  boat  puts  up,  stating  where  the  lodgings  are.  The  lodg- 
ings you  will  be  kind  enough  to  take  for  us  (if  there  is  time) 
in  the  quietest  and  airiest  situation  you  have  met  with.  We 
prefer,  for  instance,  the  street  in  the  Hampstead  Road,  or 
thereabouts,  to  the  one  in  London  Street,  to  which  said  street 
I  happen  to  have  a  particular  objection  ;  said  particular 
objection,  however,  being  of  no  account,  if  it  cannot  be 
helped.  Should  any  circumstance  prevent  our  having  a  note 
at  the  boat-office  we  shall  put  up  in  the  neighbourhood  for 
the  night,  and  communicate  with  you  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible  I  write  in   ill    spirits,  which  the  sight  of  your 

faces,  and  the  firm  work  I  have  to  set  about,  will  do  away. 
1  feel  that  the  only  way  to  settle  these  things  is  to  meet  and 
get  through  them,  sword  in  hand,  as  stoutly  as  I  may.  If 
I  delayed  I  might  be  pinned  for  ever  to  a  distance,  like  a 
fluttering  bird  to  a  wall,  and  so  die  in  that  helpless  yearning. 
I  have  been  mistaken.  During  my  strength  my  weakness, 
perhaps,  only  was  apparent ;  now  that  I  am  weaker,  indigna- 
tion has  given  a  fillip  to  my  strength.  But  how  am  I  di- 
gressing !  I  said  1  should  only  write  a  word,  and  I  certainly 
did  not  intend  that  that  word  should  be  upon  any  less 
agreeable  subject  than  a  steamboat.  Yet  I  must  add,  that  I 
remember  the  memorandum  you  allude  to  about  the  balance. 
I  laid  it  to  a  very  different  account  !  Lord  !  Lord  !  Well, 
my  dear  Vincent,  you  have  a  considerable  fool  for  your  friend, 
but  one  who  is  nevertheless  wise  enough  to  be,  very  truly 
yours, 

L.  H. 

P-S. — Thanks  to  the  two  Marys  for  their  kind  letters.     I 
must  bring  them  the  answers  myself.     This  is  what  women 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     231 

ought  to  do.     They  ought  to  be  very  kind   and  write,  and 
read  books,  and  go  about  through  the  mud  for  their  friends. 

The  three  next  give  an  excellent  idea  of  Leigh  Hunt's 
manner  of  writing  to  a  friend  suffering  from  nervous 
illness  :  by  turns  remonstrating,  rallying,  urging,  humour- 
ing, consoling,  and  strengthening  —all  done  tenderly, 
and  with  true  affection  for  the  friend  addressed  : — 

To  V.  N. 

30,  Hadlow  Street,  Dec.  6th,  1825. 
My  DEAR  NOVELLO, — I  expected  you  at  Harry  Robertson's, 
and  I  looked  for  you  last  fine  Wednesday  at  Highgat-i,  and 
I  have  been  to  seek  you  to-day  at  Shacklewell.  1  thought 
we  were  sometimes  to  have  two  Sabbaths,  always  one,  and  I 
find  we  have  none.  How  is  this  ?  If  you  are  not  well 
enough  to  meet  me  at  Highgate,  and  will  not  make  yourself 
better  by  coming  and  living  near  your  friends  somewhere, 
why  I  must  come  to  you  at  Shacklewell  on  a  Wednesday, 
that's  all ;  and  come  I  will,  unless  you  will  have  none  of  me. 
I  should  begin  to  have  fears  on  that  score,  when  I  hear  that 
you  are  in  town  twice  a  week,  and  yet  never  come  near  me  ; 
but  in  truth,  coxcomb  as  I  have  been  called,  and  as  I  some- 
times fear  I  show  myself  when  I  talk  of  prevailing  on  my 
friends  to  do  this  and  that,  tliis  is  a  blow  which  would  really 
be  too  hard  for  the  vanity  of,  and  let  me  add,  the  affection  of 
your  ever  true  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Will  you  not  give  us  a  call  this  evening,  and  at  what  time  ? 
Have  I  not  a  chop  for  a  friend  ?  And  is  there  not  Souchong 
in  the  town  of  Somers  .'' 

To  Vincent  Novello. 

[No  date.] 
My  dear  Novello, — As  I  am  not  sure  that  you  were  at 
Mrs.  Shelley's  last  night,  I  write  this  to  let  you  know  that  a 
violent  cold,  which  I  am  afraid  of  tampering  with  any  longer, 
has  kept  me  at  home  the  two  last  eveaings,  and  will  do  the 
same  on  this.     I  defied  it  for  some  nights,  but  found  myself 


232        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

under  the  necessity,  on  every  account,  of  doing  so  no  longer. 
You  know  how  bad  it  was  on  Wednesday  ;  but  Wednesday 
night's  return  home  made  it  worse.  I  repent  this  the  more, 
because  I  wish  to  see  you  very  much.  I  want  to  chat  with 
you  on  the  musical  and  other  matters,  and  to  assent  to  my 
privilege  of  a  friend  in  doing  all  I  can  to  make  you  adopt 
certain  measures  I  have  in  view  equally  useful  to  both  of  us, 
for  the  recovery  of  your  health.  I  said  equally  pleasant,  and 
I  trust  and  feel  certain  they  would  be  so  in  the  long-run;  but 
undoubtedly  in  the  first  instance  you  might  find  them  painful. 
However,  as  I  never  yet  found  an  obstacle  like  this  stand  in 
your  way  when  a  friend  was  to  be  obliged,  I  give  you  notice 
that  you  have  spoilt  me  in  that  matter,  and  that  I  shall  not 
expect  it  now. 

"  Hunt,  you  are  very  kind,  but — "  Novello,  so  are  you ;  and 
therefore  I  do  not  expect  to  be  put  off"  with  words.  Besides, 
did  I  not  have  a  long  conversation  the  other  evening  with 
Mary  ?  And  did  she  not  promise  me,  like  a  good  wife  as  she 
was,  not  to  listen  to  a  word  you  had  to  say  1  I  mean,  against 
putting  yourself  in  the  best  possible  position  for  recovering 
your  health.  Or  rather,  did  she  not  say,  with  good  wifely 
tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  would  let  you  do  all  you  pleased, 
which  of  course  ties  up  your  hands — only  she  hoped  you 
would  think  as  I  did,  if  it  was  really  as  much  for  your  good 
as  I  supposed — which  of  course  ties  them  up  more  ?  And 
does  not  all  that  she  has  said,  and  all  that  I  have  said,  and 
all  that  I  mean  to  say,  (which  is  quite  convincing,  I  assure 
you,  in  case  you  are  not  convinced  already,  as  you  ought  to 
be,)  prove  to  )ou  that  you  must  leave  that  dirty  Shacklewell, 
that  wet  Shacklewell,  that  flat,  floundering  and  foggy 
Shacklewell,  that  distant,  out-of-the-way,  dreary,  unfriendly, 
unheard-of,  melancholy,  moping,  unsocial,  unmusical,  un- 
meeting,  uneveningy,  un-Hunt-helping,  unimproper,  un-Glid- 
dony,  un-Kentish-towny,  un-Hampsteady,  un-Hadlowincial, 
far,  foolish,  faint,  fantastical,  sloppy,  hoppy,  moppy,  brick- 
fieldy,  bothery,  mothery,  misty,  muddling,  meagre,  megrim, 
Muggletonian,  dim,  dosy,  booty,  cold-arboury,  plashy,  mashy, 
squashy,  Old-Street-Roady,  Balls-Pondy,  Hoxtony,  hurtful, 
horrid,  lowering,  lax,  languid,  musty,  sepulchral,  shameful, 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     233 

washy,  dim,  cold,  sulky,  subterraneous,  sub-and-supra- 
lapsarian,  whity-brown,  clammy,  sick,  silent,  cheap,  expen- 
sive, blameable,  gritty,  hot,  cold,  wheezy,  vapourish,  inconse- 
quential, what-next?-y,go-to-beddy,  lumpish,  glumpish,mump- 
ish,  frumpish,  pumpish,  odd,  thievish,  coining,  close-keeping, 
chandlering,  drizzling,  mizzling,  duck-weedy,  rotting,  per- 
jured, forsaking,  flitting,  bad,  objected-to,  false,  cold-potatoey, 
inoperative,  dabby,  draggle-tailed,  shambling,  huddling, 
indifferent,  spiteful,  meek,  milk-and-watery,  inconvenient, 
lopsided,  dull,  doleful,  damnable  Shacklewell.  Come, "  1  think 
here  be  proofs." 

Ever  dear  N.'s  affectionate 

L.  H. 
P.S. — I  know  not  what  Holmes  thinks  of  Shacklewell ;  but 
he  can  hardly  have  an  opinion  in  favour  of  it  after  this  Rabelais 
argument.     Clarke  is  bound  to  side  with  all  friends   at   a 
distance. 

To  V.  N. 

Hadlow  Street,  19th  January,  1826. 
My  dear  Novello,— Pray  do  not  think  that  I  did,  or 
shall,  or  ever  can  feel  angry  at  my  friend's  ill-health.  I  have 
suffered  bitterly  from  ill -health  myself;  and  know  too  well, 
even  now,  what  it  is.  If  I  have  plagued  you  at  all  about 
Shacklewell,  or  anything  else,  I  can  do  so  no  more  when  you 
talk  to  me  thus  ;  especially  when  I  see  you  doing  what  you 
so  much  dislike,  to  gratify  your  friends.  I  recognize  there 
my  old  friend  triumphant,  however  he  may  suffer  for  a  time. 
That  you  suffer  extremely  I  doubt  not,  being  in  the  agony  of 
the  passage  from  one  mode  of  diet  and  living  to  another — a 
voyage  enough  to  shake  the  most  Ancient  Mariner.  But 
believe  one  who  speaks  from  experience — that  these  things 
have  an  end.  A  little  medicine  will,  I  doubt  not,  do  you 
good,  especially  if  you  follow  it  up  with  some  appeals  to 
natural  remedies — such  as  walking,  early  rising,  etc.  Upon 
early  rising  (always  spcakiiig  from  experience)  I  think  the 
very  greatest  stress  ought  to  be  laid,  and  I  reserve  this  one 
subject  to  plague  you  upon  — always  provided  that  you  get  up 
to  a  warm  fire  and  speedy  and  good  breakfast.      Do  not 


234        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

plague  yourself  till  you  are  better  about  coming  to  me.  I 
will,  in  the  meantime,  come  to  you  on  your  own  Sundays  as 
well  as  mine,  and  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  do  so  on  Sunday  next. 
Suffer  not  a  moment's  uneasiness  about  the  Lambs.  They 
will  set  all  down  to  the  very  best  account,  depend  upon  it ; 
and,  besides,  you  were  as  cheerful,  and  more  so,  than  anybody 
could  reasonably  expect  from  a  sick  man  ;  and  your  going 
away  was  no  more  than  what  Lamb  does  himself. 

The  necessity  of  being  heroical  under  nervousness,  tensions 
of  the  head,  and  "other  gentilities"  (as  Metastasio  has  it)  is, 
says  he,  a  great  nuisance.  But  he  got  over  them  :  so  have  I, 
and  so  will  you ;  so  have  hundreds  of  others.  The  thing  is 
common  when  people  come  to  compare  notes.  Lady  Suffolk, 
who  had  a  head  of  this  sort,  and  lived  to  see  a  tranquil  old 
age,  said  she  never  knew  a  head  without  them  "  that  was 
ANOrth  anything."  Think  of  that  ;  and  she  knew  the  wits  and 
poets  of  two  generations.  Love  to  dear  Mary  and  dear 
Vincent. 

From  their  truly  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

The  following  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Vincent  Novello, 
when  her  husband  and  she  and  three  of  their  children 
went  to  the  seaside  near  Hastings  : — 

To  the  Queen  of  Little  Bohemia. 

Highgate,  ist  August,  1826 
Gypsy, — I  know  not  what  there  is  in  this  word  gypsy,  but 
somehow  or  other  it  makes  me  very  tender,  and  if  I  were 
near  you,  I  should  be  obliged  to  turn  round  and  ask  Vincent's 
permission  to  give  you  a  considerable  thump  on  the  blade- 
bone.  I  believe  it  is  the  association  of  ideas  with  tents, 
green  fields,  and  black  eves— a  sort  of  Mahomedan  heaven 
upon  earth— very  touching  to  my  unsophisticated  notions.  I 
wish  we  were  all  of  us  gypsies  ;  I  mean  all  of  us  who  have  a 
value  for  one  another  ;  and  that  we  could  go  seeking  health 
and  happiness  without  a  care  up  all  the  green  lanes  in 
England,  half  gypsy  and  half  gentry,  with  books  instead  of 
pedlary.     I  should  prefer  working  for  three  or  four  hours  of  a 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     235 

morning,  if  it  were  only  to  give  the  rest  of  the  day  a  greater 
zest ;  then  we  would  dine  early,  chat  or  read  under  the  trees, 
tea  early  (I  think  we  must  have  some  tea),  and  so  to  stray  about 
by  starlight  if  it  is  fine,  and  sit  and  hug  ourselves  with  the 
thought  of  being  well  sheltered  from  the  rain  on  a  dripping 
night.  I  don't  think  we  would  have  candles.  Our  hours 
should  be  too  good.  Up  with  the  lark,  fresh  air,  green 
bowers,  russetin  apple  cheeks — why  the  devil  doesn't  the 
world  live  in  this  manner,  or  allow  honest  people  to  do  so 
that  would  ?  Oh,  but  we  must  wait  a  long  while  first,  if  ever; 
and  meanwhile  we  must  hav-e  a  great  number  of  children 
("  Leigh  Hunt  for  instance — just  so  "),  purely  to  worry  our- 
selves about  more  than  will  ever  do  them  any  good  ;  and  we 
must  have  a  vast  number  of  fine  clothes,  and  visitors,  and 
cooks  (to  provide  us  with  all  the  fever  we  have  not  got 
already),  and  Doctors,  and  gossips,  and  tabernacle  ,  and 
cheese-cakes,  and  other  calamities;  and  we  must  all  sacrihce 
ourselves  for  our  children,  and  they  must  all  sacrifice  them- 
selves for  theirs,  and  they  for  theirs,  and  so  on  to  the  third 
and  fourth  generation  of  them  that  worry  us,  wondering  all 
the  while  (poor  devils  !  both  we  and  they)  how  it  is  that  so 
much  good  love  and  good  will  (for  there  the  sting  lies,  that 
the  unhappiness  should  arise  out  of  the  very  love  on  all  sides) 
does  not  hit  upon  modes  of  existence  a  little  discreeter. 
Only  let  the  world  come  to  me — leave  me  alone  with  him,  as 
the  lady  said  ;  and  /W  teach  him  how  to  make  his  children 
grateful,  what  pleasures  to  substitute  for  his  cookery,  and  how 
he  should  cultivate  mind  and  muscle  by  a  pleasing  alterna- 
tion. But  I  am  getting  moral,  and  I  am  sure  I  didn't  intend 
to  be  so.  Don't  think  ill  of  me.  I  intended  in  this  letter  to 
be  all  full  of  pleasure,  as  I  should  be  if  we  could  do  as  I  say. 
As  to  the  cookery  and  all  that,  I  sometimes  fear  that  the 
theories  of  Vincent's  friends  (which,  between  you  and  my 
conscience,  are  much  better  than  their  practice)  set  him  upon 
an  extreme  of  diet  which  has  done  him  no  good,  and  which  it 
might  be  to  his  advantage  to  contradict  a  little  more.  He 
did  himself  harm  by  great  sudden  gulps  of  dinner  and  tea  (no 
man  being  less  of  a  gourmand  than  he  was),  rendered  more 
hurtful  by  long  fasting  and  overwork  ;  and  I  sometimes  feai 


2  36        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


he  too  suddenly  went  counter  to  all  this.  Well,  patience  is  a 
rascally  necessity,  as  the  poet  said,  and  he  has  enough  of  it  ; 
but  patience  is  rewarded  at  last.  We  have  such  miraculous 
accounts  in  the  newspapers  of  cures  of  the  spirits  as  well  as 
body  effected  by  the  gymnastic  exercises  now  spreading 
abroad,  that  I  cannot  help  wishing  Vincent  would  give  them 
a  trial  when  he  returns  ;  especially  as  in  spite  of  the  fat  he 
had,  I  remember  he  used  to  be  very  active,  and  a  vaulterovcr 
gates.  So  now,  gypsy,  stand  in  awe  of  me  and  my  knowledge 
(which  is  what  I  like  on  the  part  of  the  sex),  and  then,  sus- 
pectmg  me  nevertheless  to  be  not  a  jot  more  awful  than 
yourself  (rather  the  reverse,  if  you  knew  all),  give  me  the 
most  insolent  pinch  of  the  cheek  you  can  think  of  (which  is 
what  I  like  much  better),  and  in  spite  of  all  my  airs  and 
assumptions,  keep  for  me  one  of  the  little  corners  that  a  large 
heart  like  yours  possesses,  and  there  let  me  occupy  it  when 
I  please,  with  "  dear  Mr.  Arthur,"  and  dearer  Statia,  and  one 
or  two  others  who  would  willingly  hold  the  rest  of  it,  and  its 
inmate  among  them,  in  their  affectionate  arms,  till  he  got  well 
and  made  us  all  happy  again. 

Ever  most  truly  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

P.S. — Pray  write  again  speedily,  and  we  will  be  better  boys 
and  girls,  and  rewrite  instantly.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  letters  of  Lady 
Suffolk  and  the  Genlis  which  you  ought  to  have  had  long  ago. 
I  send  them  now,  with  one  or  two  other  works  which  I  think 
may  amuse  you,  and  a  proof  sheet  of  an  article  of  mine  (the 
Dictionary  of  Love  and  Beauty),  which  you  must  take  with 
all  its  mistakes  of  the  press  on  its  head.  .  .  .  Marianne  begs 
her  kindest  remembrances.  She  is  very  well  and  in  excellent 
spirits,  with  the  exception  of  a  swollen  eye,  given  her  by  that 
mysterious  personage  called  a  Blight.  I  tell  her  it  looks  very 
conjugal ;  and  yet  I  am  sure  I  ought  not  to  tell  her  so,  but 
I  may  tell  her  that  it  is  "  all  my  eye."  Do  you  remember  the 
Merry  Wives  of  Tavistock  ?  Statia  and  she  are  at  present 
the  Merry  Wives  of  Highgate.  We  only  want  the  other 
Tavistock  one  in  good  spirits  again  to  beat  the  Windsor  ones 
hollow. 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LE TIERS.     237 

The  next  is  a  very  characteristic  example  of  one  of  his 
playful  notes  of  invitation  : — 

To  V.  N.,  Great  Queen  Street. 

Sunday  morninpf,  27th  Dec.  [Query  1828]. 
My  dear  Vincent, — Tho'  it  is  very  proper  that  people 
should  go  out  in  cold  weather  to  see  their  friends,  it  does  not 
appear  to  me  quite  so  proper  that  they  should  go  out  after 
dinner  as  before  ;  ergo,  this  comes  to  say  that  I  hope,  in 
consideration  of  the  frost  and  snow,  you  will  come  at  three 
to-morrow  instead  of  five.  I  will  treat  you  exactly  as  you 
treated  me,  therefor:  there  is  to  be  no  excuse  on  that  score. 
If  anybody  prefers  it,  I  will  not  treat  them  so  well ;  they  shall 
have  a  cold  potatoe  at  a  sideboard,  with  their  feet  in  a  pail 
of  water.  So  pray  come.  Our  meeting  will  be  two  hours 
the  earlier  ;  and  not  to  dine  with  me,  under  all  the  circum- 
stances, would  be  indecent. 

Ever  truly  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

COME  AT  3  (a  pla^-ard  j^//,  or  Clarke  whisper). 

P.S. — I  find  that  my  exactly  is  not  quite  exact.  There  is 
to  be  a  piece  of  boiled  beef  to-morrow  ;  but  then  we  have 
mutton  to-day,  which  will  be  conveniently  cold  for  those  who 
prefer  the  worse  fare.  By  the  way  I  hope  you  all  like  boiled 
beef.  I  think  I  recollect  that  you  and  Mary  do,  but  not  so 
sure  of  the  Clarkes.  I  must  presume,  with  them,  upon  the 
ground  of  its  being  generally  liked. 

The  three  following,  being  sent  from  "  Cromwell  Lane," 
are  grouped  together  ;  but  no  date  being  affixed  to  them, 
it  is  difficult  to  trace  the  period  when  they  were 
written  : — 

To  M.  S.  N.  (66,  Queen  Street.) 

Cromwell  Lane,  Dec.  23rd,  Wednesday. 

Dear  Mary, — By  a  miraculous  cliance  I  slept  from  home 

on  Monday  night,  and  did  not  get  your  letter  till  the  night 

following  ;  so  that  you  must  consider  this  as  an  answer  by 

return  of  post.     I  shall  come  with  the  greatest  pleasure  to- 


238        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

morrow  at  three  and  pay  my  respects  to  you  all,  and  to  my 
old  friend  Bacchus  senior.  Is  there  any  Septuor?  However, 
that  is  not  necessary.  There  will  at  all  events  be  a  Quatuor 
(you  and  Vincent,  Charles  Clarke  and  Victorinella),  and  any 
two  of  you  would  make  a  good  duct,  to  say  nothing  oia.soitl-o. 
I  am  glad  you  like  my  versLS  so  well.  Marianne  begs  her 
love  and  hopes  to  see  you  soon.  It  is  lucky  that  I  had  not 
time  to  be  tempted  into  the  Requiem,  for  besides  what  you 
say,  there  are  too  many  thoughts  on  certain  subjects  pass 
thi'o'  my  mind  on  these  occasions,  and  put  me  into  a  state 
unsuitable  both  to  the  dignity  of  my  philosophy  and  the 
cheerfulness  of  my  hopes ;  so  there  is  a  pretty  sound  period 
for  you.  I  shall  compliment  myself  by  saying  that  I  should 
have  felt  the  Requiem  too  much  as  Mozart  did  himself ;  and 
greatly  for  the  same  reason  ;  to  wit,  that  my  liver  is  not  in 
good  condition.  If  it  be  thought  too  vain  to  have  even  a  liver 
in  common  with  Mozart,  tell  Vincent  it  is  owing  to  his  flattery 
of  me  in  the  postscript.  To  be  serious  I  never  see  his  hand 
but  it  seems  to  come  with  a  blessing  upon  me,  like  that  of 
one  of  your  Catholic  priests, — only  sincere  :^ — a  Thais,  only 
not  vicious.  You  remember,  I  suppose,  whose  pleasant 
passage  this  last  sentence  alludes  to. 

Dear  Wilful  (for  I  cannot  part  with  any  of  my  old  ways)  I 
am  heartily  thine. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  M.  S.  N. 

Cromwell  Lane,  Feb.  18. 
Dear  Mary, — You  have  seen  by  the  Taiie>-  how  accept- 
able your  critical  epistle  was;  but  how  you  must  have  won- 
dered, with  all  your  breakfast-table,  at  the  signature  ''Man- 
thele"  !  I  ha^'e  fancied  you  have  been  saying  fifty  times  in 
your  heart, '' What  the  devil  does  he  mean  by 'Manthcle"'.-^ — 
for  ladies,  you  know,  do  say  "  what  the  devil ''  in  their 
hearts,  though  it  may  not  be  quite  bad  enough  for  their 
tongues.  (There ;  that  is  a  dramatic  surprise  for  you,  very 
ingenious  ;  for  you  thought  I  was  going  to  say  "  not  quite 
good  enough,"  which  I  own  would  have  been  less  proper.) 
Well,  Manthele  should  have  been  Melanthe  (dark  flower) :  I 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     239 

thought  "an  amateur  "not  so  well,  because  it  is  pretty  to 
see  ladies'  letters  distinguished  by  ladies'  names,  and  so  I 
thought  I  would  give  you  a  nice  horticultural  one,  such  as 
you  would  like  ;  and  I  wrote  or  rather  printed  it  in  capitals, 
that  there  might  be  no  mistake;  and  Mr.  Reynolds  tells  me 
that  he  saw  it  right  in  the  proof.  He  says  the  letters  must 
have  subsequently  fallen  out,  when  going  to  press,  and  been 
huddled  back  loosely.  Never  apologize,  dear  Mary,  about 
books  :  for  then  what  am  /  to  do  .?  Keep  them,  an  you  love 
me,  and  I  shall  think  I  am  obliging  somebody.  Do  you  know 
there  is  somebody  in  the  world,  who  owes  me  tenpence?  It 
is  a  woman  at  Finchley.  I  bought  two-pennyworth  of  milk 
of  her  one  day,  to  give  a  draught  to  Marianne;  and  she 
hadn't  change  ;  so  I  left  a  shilling  with  her,  and  cunningly 
said  I  should  call.  Now  I  never  shall  call,  improvident  as 
you  may  think  it :  so  that  upon  the  principle  of  compound 
interest,  her  great-great- grandchildren  or //^<?/r  great-great,  or 
whichever  great  it  is,  will  owe  my  posterity  several  millions 
of  money.  This,  I  hope,  will  give  you  a  lively  sense  of  the 
shrewdness  which  experience  has  taught  me.  Love,  love, 
and  ten  times  love,  to  dear  Vincent. 

Ever  sincerely  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  Mary  Cowden  Clarke 

Thursday  night,  Cromwell  Lane. 
Dear  Victoria, — (For  1  have  been  used  to  call  you  so, 
Mary  being  your  name  in  heaven,  but  \' ictoria  that   upon 
earth — 

In  heaven  yclept  "  my  own  Mar\'," 
But  on  earth  heart-easing  Vic.) 
I  conclude  from  Charles'  letter  and  your  own  searching  eyes, 
that  you  saw  the  announcement  of  the  verses  in  the  Tatler. 
Be  good  enough  therefore  to  inspire  your  husband,  if  you 
please,  with  some  of  his  best  rhymes  on  the  spot,  for  a 
reason  which  he  will  tell  you  ;  and  believe  me. 

For  your  kind  words  and  attentions, 

Your  truly  obliged  friend, 
Leigh  Hunt. 


240        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

The  two  next  short  notes  are  given  as  specimens  of 
Leigh  Hunt's  affectionate,  bright,  off-hand  style  of  writing 
a  mere  few  lines  to  his  friendo  : — 

To  M.  S.  N. 

Wednesday,  July  ii. 

Dear  Novella, — Many  thanks  for  your  lemons,  and 
many  more  for  your  inquiries  and  kind  attentions.  We  have 
had  some  heart-tugging  work  since  I  saw  Novello  in  the 
streets.  Both  Mary  and  baby  have  been  in  danger,  the 
former  for  a  short  time,  the  latter  moaning  for  two  nights  and 
a  day  with  the  anguish  of  acute  inflammatory  fever  : — but 
you  know  all  this  sort  of  trouble,  and  more  :  nor  would  I  say 
anything  to  bring  any  more  tears  into  your  eyes,  but  that  I 
owe  you  a  true  account  how  we  go  on ;  and  even  tears  are 
good  things  jn  this  wDrld,  after  a  time  : — they  help  to  melt  us 
all  into  one  heart.  God  bless  you  and  all  our  friends.  I 
hope  to  enjoy  them  again  shortly,  and  still  reckon  myself 
getting  better. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

P.S. — The  danger  is  now  over. 


"o"- 


To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke. 

Saturday,  Dec.  29,  66,  Great  Queen  Street. 
Thou  Cowden, — Will  you  vouchsafe  to  step  down  here, 
and  confer  with  me  half  an  hour  or  so  respecting  a  certain 
unborn  acquaintance  of  yours  yclept  the  Companion.'' — and 
if  you  cannot  come  directly,  will  you  say  at  what  hour  before 
8  o'clock  you  can  come  ;  or  whether  you  can  or  cannot  come 
at  all  this  afternoon  ? — for  time  presses  upon  a  project  I 
have  in  my  head,  because  of  the  New  Year. 

Truly  yours, 
L.  H. 

The  next  is  a  notelet  that  drolly  mimics  the  flourishing 
and  superlative  style  used  in  Italian  letter-writing,  and 
gives  a  whimsically  literal  translation  of  "Cowden"  into 
*■'■  Spelonca  delle  Vacche  :" — 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    241 

To.  C.  C.  C. 

[No  date.] 
(Address  :)        All  'ornatissimo  Signore  il  Signor 
Carlo  Speloiica  dclle  Vacche. 
Signor  Carlo, 

Amico  mio  osservantissimo, 
Have  you  heard  anything  of  this  confounded    quarterly 
payment  ?   (Don't  you  like   this   plunge   out   of  the  Italian 
amenity  into  Damme-by-G-d  English ?) 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

L.  H. 

The  following  is  an  exquisite  example  of  a  poet-friend's 
candour  in  criticism  and  even  objection,  combined  with 
the  most  refined  and  affectionate  praise,  when  sent  a 
MS.  copy  of  some  of  the  verses  that  subsequently 
were  printed  in  a  small  volume  entitled  "  Carmina 
minima  :" — 

To  C.  C.  C. 

5,  York  Buildings,  New  Road,  Dec.  13th. 
My  dear  Clarke, — I  beg  your  acceptance  of  a  copy  of  my 
book.  I  do  not  send  one  to  Vincent,  because  tho'  he  is  one 
of  the  few  friends  to  whom  one  of  my  few  copies,  sent  in  this 
manner,  would  otherwise  have  gone,  he  is  among  its  patrons 
and  purchasers,  and  therefore,  I  must,  even  out  of  my  sense  of 
his  kindness,  omit  him.  But  tho'  it  is  not  altogether  out  of 
his  power  to  stretch  a  point  for  me  in  this  way  with  his  purse, 
I  dare  to  tell  you  that  I  know  it  to  be  yours  and  that  your 
generosity,  equally  real  with  his  but  unequal  to  show  itself  in 
the  same  manner,  will  give  me  credit  for  understanding  you 
thoroughly  and  believing  that  you  understand  me.  I  appeal 
to  it  also,  with  hand  on  heart,  for  giving  me  entire  credit 
when  I  say,  that  the  sonnet  in  which  you  were  mentioned, 
and  the  one  mentioning  himself,  were  omitted  solely  in  con- 
seciuence  of  the  severe  law  1  had  laid  down  for  m)  self  in 
selecting  my  verses  (as  you  will  see  in  the  Preface),  and 
which,  much  against  my  will,  forced  me  to  throw  out  others 

R 


242        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS, 

relating  to  a  variety  of  my  friends.  I  am  still,  however,  to  be 
inspired  with  better  ones,  if  they  insist  upon  overwhelming  me 
with  aminbleness  and  being  illustrious.  Pray  tell  him  all  this. 
Now  let  me  tell  you  that  there  is  real  poetry  in  some  of  the 
verses  you  have  sent  me,  and  that  I  have  read  them  over  and 
over  again.  There  are  one  or  two  points  which  might  be 
amended  perhaps,  in  point  of  construction,  and  it  is  a  pity,  I 
think,  that  you  have  made  the  Fairy  so  entirely  serious  at  the 
close  of  his  song,'  as  to  say  "  Oh,  misery  !  "  He  should  have 


»  We  append  the  following  copy  of  this  "  Song, 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  FAIRIES. 

Gone  are  all  the  merry  band  !     Gone 

Is  my  Lord — my  Oberon  ! 

Gone  is  Titania  !     Moonlight  song 

And  roundel  now  no  more 

Shall  patter  on  the  grassy  floor. 

And  Robin  too  !  the  wild  bee  of  our  throng, 

Has  wound  his  last  recheat — 

Oh  fate  unmeet  ! 
The  roosted  cock,  with  answering  crow. 
No  longer  starts  to  his  "  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ** 
For  low  1  e  lies  in  death, 
With  violet,  and  muskrose  breath 
Woven  into  his  winding-sheet. 
And  now  I  wander  through  the  night, 
An  old  and  solitary  sprite  ! 
No  laughing  sister  meets  me  ; 
No  friendly  chirping  greets  me  ; 
But  the  glow-worm  shuns  me, 
And  the  mouse  outruns  me. 

And  every  hare-bell 

Rings  my  knell  ; 

For  I  am  old, 

And  my  heart  is  cold. 

Oh  misery  ! 

Alone  to  die  ! 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     243 

died  like  Suet,  between  sorrow,  astonishment,  and  jest,  and  he 
might  have  perished  of  frost,  because  there  was  no  longer 
any  fireside  for  him.  But  the  idea  of  a  "  Last  of  the  fairies," 
is  excellent,  and  the  treatment  of  it  too,  especially  down  to 
the  words  I  have  quoted,  from  the  line  beginning  "the  roosted 
cock." 

'•'  Robin  Goodfellow's  winding-sheet  "  is  worthy  of  Keats. 
I  admire  also  the  first  eight  lines  of  the  sonnet  beginning  "  I 
feel  my  spirit  humbled,"  only  you  should  not  have  said 
"i-wm/Zas  is  the  love  I  bear  you  :"  you  want  to  say  such  as  is 
the  value  of  it  ;  and  this  is  not  what  the  other  words  can  be 
made  to  imply.  At  least  I  think  so.  The  allusion  to  the 
"room"  is  good.  How  good  is  truth,  and  how  sure  it  is  to 
tell  !  I  have  always  admired,  my  dear  Clarke,  the  way  in 
which  you  took  your  fortunes,  and  the  wiseheartedness  with 
which  you  found  out  the  jewel  of  good  at  the  core  of  them, 
and  known  how  to  cherish  it.  It  has  made  you  superior  to 
them,  and  gives  you  an  advantage  which  many  richer  persons 
might  envy.  God  bless  you  both,  and  all  of  you,  and  believe 
me. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Next  come  two  delightful  Chaucerian  discussions; 
together  with  a  kindly  criticism  of  an  early-written  story, 
by  M.  C.  C.  called  "First  Love;"  and  an  amusing 
imitation  of  Johnsonian  talk  : — 

To  C.  C.  C.  &  Vincent  Novello,  Frith  Street. 

Chelsea,  Feb.  nth. 
Ever  dear  Clarke  and  Vincent, — I  have  been  going 
to  write  to  Frith  St.  not  only  for  the  last  ten  days,  but  for  the 
last  ten  weeks  ;  but  my  health  is  so  unceasingly  tried  by  my 
pen,  that  when  necessity  allows  me  to  lay  it  down,  it  costs 
me  such  efforts  to  resume  it,  as  must  throw  themselves  on  the 
indulgence  of  kind  friends.  I  rejoiced  to  hear  of  the  inten- 
tion about  Chaucer,  but  so  far  from  wondering  at  your  leav' 
ing  out  the  passages  you  speak  of,  I  may  perhaps  bespeak, 

R    2 


244        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

your  astonishment  in  return  when  I  tell  you,  that  I  am  not  sure 
I  have  ever  entirely  read  even  the  stories  in  question  ;  I 
mean  those  in  which  Sxvifi  is  horribly  mixed  up  with  La 
Fontaine  ;  so  much  do  I  revolt  from  those  kind  of  degrading 
impertinences,  in  proportion  to  the  voluptuousness  I  am  pre- 
pared to  license.  And  yet  I  ought  to  beg  pardon  of  divine 
Chaucer  for  using  such  words  ;  for  his  sociality  condescended 
to  the  grossness  of  the  time,  and  was  doubtless  superior  to  it, 
in  a  certain  sense,  at  the  moment  it  included  it  in  his  good- 
natured  universality.  They  may  even  have  been  salutary,, 
for  what  I  know,  by  reason  of  certain  subtle  meetings  of 
extremes  between  grossness  and  refinement,  which  I  cannot 
now  speak  of. 

What  good  things  they  were,  Clarke,  in  some  of  those 
verses  you  sent  me  ;  and  yet  what  a  strange  fellow  you  are, 
who  with  such  a  feeling  of  the  poetical,  and  a  nice  sense  of 
music,  can  never  write  a  dozen  lines  together  without  com- 
mitting a  false  quantity — leaving  out  Fome  crotchets  of 
your  bar.  You  almost  make  me  begin  to  think  that  Chaucer 
wrote  in  the  same  manner,  and  not,  as  I  have  fondly 
imagined,  with  syllabical  perfection.  I  am  glad  you  did  not 
dislike  my  criticism  ;  and  you  too,  dear  Vincent.  I  send 
Clarke  one  or  two  more,  which  I  have  cut  out  of  periodicals. 
Item^  another  True  Sun,  merely  because  it  contains  a  mention 
of  him,  and  may  am.use  him  in  the  rest.  He  will  see  by  it 
that  Christianity  is  getting  on,  and  that  Blackwood  and  I, 
poetically,  are  becoming  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  The 
other  day,  there  was  an  Ode  in  Blackwood  in  honour  of  the 
ineviory  of  SJielley  j  and  I  look  for  one  to  Keats.  I  hope 
this  will  give  you  faith  in  glimpses  of  the  golden  age. 

You  may  have  seen  a  popular  edition  of  the  ''  Indicator  " 
advertised ;  I  mean  with  omissions.  It  is  not  mine,  but 
Colburn's,  or  I  should  have  had  copies  to  load  my  friends 
with,  whereas  I  have  been  obliged  to  be  silent  about  it  to 
some  of  my  oldest  and  nearest.  What  am  I  then  to  do  in 
your  house .''  I  must,  for  the  present  (for  I  still  hope  to  do 
better),  cut  the  gentlemen,  and  confine  myself,  with  a  pleasing 
narrowness,  to  the  lady — I  beg  pardon,  to  Mary,  to  whom 
I  beg  kindest  remembrances,  and  her  acceptance  of  the  book 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     245 

she  christened.  Dear  Vin,  I  think  of  you  all,  be  assured, 
quite  as  often  as  you  think  of  me.  What  have  I  to  do, 
sitting,  as  I  do,  evening  after  evening  by  myself  in  my  study, 
but  to  think  of  old  times  and  friends,  and  attempt  the  con- 
solation of  a  verse?  May  you  all  be  very  happy  is  the 
constant  wish  of 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  C.  C.  C. 

4,  Upper  Cheyne  Row,  July  i8th. 

I  was  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  letter,  and  rejoice  to 
see  that  you  continue  to  like  the  journal  ;  but  as  to  prejudice, 
thou  Cowden,  against  "  the  Siddons,"  I  disclaim  it,  and  do 
accuse  thee  (proof  not  being  brought)  of  prejudice  thyself  in 
the  accusation.  The  prejudice  is  nature's  ; — what  think  you 
of  that  ? — for  I  have  no  pique  against  the  Kembles,  excepting 
that  they  were  an  artificial  generation,  and  their  sister,  with 
all  her  superiority,  a  sort  of  "mankind  woman"  as  the  old 
writers  phrase  it. 

But  now  to  better  things, — Chaucer  and  first  love  ;  and  first 
of  the  first  ;  for  love  forbid  that  love  should  not  go  before 
Chaucer,  seeing  that  love  made  Chaucer  himself,  or  ought  to 
have  done  so,  and  certainly  made  him  a  poet.  I  have  read 
it  twice,  and  both  times  with  emotion.  The  only  fault  I  find 
is  that  the  uncle,  under  the  circumstances,  would  not  have 
stuck  to  his  vow.  He  would  at  the  utmost  have  gone  to  his 
rector  or  bishop  with  a  case  of  conscience,  and  the  bishop 
would  have  told  him  it  was  a  wicked  thing  to  stick  to  such  a 
vow.  As  to  the  rest,  all  I  say  is,  that  the  writer  deserves  to 
be  a  man's  first  love  and  his  last. 

What  you  say  about  Lyon  net  makes  me  "pause  and 
wonder ;"  yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  was  unworthy 
of  "his  greatness"  to  put  himself  into  such  a  state  of  fume 
and  energy  for  such  an  object.  What  need  had  he  to  prove 
his  energy,  and  by  rope -dancing?  Conceive  the  time  it  must 
have  taken,  and  the  grave  daily  joltering  practice,  an  immortal 
soul  (as  an  old  divine  or  Johnson  might  have  phrased  it) 
bobbing  up  and  down  every  day,  with  a  grave  face,  and  with 


246        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

nothing  better  before  it  to  warrant  its  saliences  than  the  hope 
of  beatin;:^  a  fellow  at  a  fair  !  Sir,  he  had  much  better  have 
taken  Mrs.  Lyonnet  by  the  hand,  and  danced  2l  pas-de-deux 
with  her. 

Boswell.  There  is  a  grace  in  that  dance,  sir. 

Johnson.  Yes,  sir,  and  it  promotes  benevolence. 

Boswell.  And  yet  you  would  not  have  it  danced  every  day, 
sir, — not  with  so  formal  a  recurrence, — not  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Johnson.  Why,  no,  sir;  not  ex-officioj  not  professionally; 
not  like  the  clock,  sir.  Sir,  I  would  not  have  a  man  horo- 
logically  saltatory.  An  impulse  should  be  an  impulse,  and 
circumstances  should  be  considered  besides. 

Boswell.  You  have  danced  yourself,  sir  .-* 

Johnson  {with  complacency).  Yes,  sir;  {then  with  a  shrewd 
look)  though  people  would  not  easily  suppose  it.  ( Ihen  rising 
with  a  noble  indignation.)  But,  sir,  I  did  not  dance  on  the 
rope,  like  this  Lyonnet,  I  left  that  to  the  paltry  egotism  of 
Frenchmen,  fellows  that  think  nothing  too  small  to  be  made 
mighty  by  their  patronage,  that  go  and  write  the  lives  of 
caterpillars.  .  .  . 

I  will  come  on  Sunday  week,  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
let  me  know  the  hour. 

Can  you  lend  me  for  a  day  or  two  your  copy  of  "  Adam 
the  Gardener".?  I  want  to  extract  the  description  of  the 
rainstorm  for  next  Wednesday  week. 

Ever  truly  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

P.S. — I  have  omitted  to  speak  of  the  Chaucer  MS.  after 
all.  But  you  will  sec  I  had  not  forgotten  him,  either  in  MS. 
or  letter.  I  need  not  repeat  how  I  like  your  project,  and  as 
little,  I  am  sure,  need  I  apologize  for  the  littJe  corrections 
suggested  in  the  preface. 

The  following  is  one  of  his  courageous  struggles 
against  ill-health  and  its  consequent  feeling  of  dejection ; 
determining  to  take  comfort  from  friendship  and  his  own 
power  of  cheerful  rallying  :— - 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     247 

To  M.  S.  N. 

4,  Upper  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea,  April  I5tli. 
What  shall  I  say  to  dear  Mary  for  being  so  long  before  I 
reply  to  her  kind  letter  ?  What  but  that  I  have  a  bruised 
head,  and  am  always  full  of  work  and  trouble,  and  always 
desiring  to  write  such  very  long  answers  to  kind  letters,  that 
I  seem  as  if  I  should  never  write  any.  I  once  heard  Hob- 
house  say  a  good  thing — much  better  than  any  he  ever  said  in 
Parliament— to  wit,  that  the  only  real  thing  in  life  was  to  be 
always  doing  wrong,  and  always  be  forgiven  for  it.  Is  not 
that  pretty  and  Christian  ?  For  my  part  I  cannot  always  be 
doing  wrong  ;  I  have  no  such  luck  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  am 
obliged  to  waste  a  great  deal  of  time  in  doing  much  which 
is  absolutely  right, — nay,  I  am  generally  occupied  with  it  all 
day,  so  strange  and  unpardonable  is  my  existence.  And  yet 
this  putting  off  of  letters  is  a  very  bad  thing  ;  I  grant  my 
friends  have  much  to  forgive  in  it,  so  I  hope  they  will  forgive 
me  accordingly,  and  think  I  am  not  so  very  bad  and  virtuous 
after  all.  As  to  being  "  venerable,''  however,  I  defy  anybody 
to  accuse  rne  of  that,  and  they  will  find  some  difficulty  in 
persuading  me  that  you  are  so.  Venerable  !  why  it's  an 
Archdeacon  that's  venerable,  or  Bcde,  the  oldest  historian — 
"  Venerable  Bede  " — or  the  oldest  Duke  or  Viscount  living, 
whoever  he  is,  the  "  venerable  Duke "  of  the  newspapers. 
What  time  may  do  with  me  I  cannot  say,  but  it  shall  at  any 
rate  be  with  no  consent  of  mine  that  I  become  even  aged, 
much  less  venerable,  and  therefore  I  have  resolved  not  to 
fear  being  so,  lest  fear  make  me  what  I  fear.  Alas  !  I  fear  I 
am  not  wholly  without  misgivings  while  I  say  it,  for  white 
hairs  are  fast  and  fearfully  mingling  with  my  black,  and  I 
fear  that  my  juvenility  is  all  brag.  I  have  told  Clarke  that  I 
have  none  remaining,  and  I  fear  that  is  more  like  the  truth 
than  these  ostentations,  that  is  to  say,  in  point  of  matter  of 
fact,  for  as  to  matter  of  fancy  I  love  and  desire  just  the 
same  things  as  I  did  of  old,  read  the  same  books,  long  for 
the  same  fields,  love  the  same  friends  (whatever  some  of  these 
may  think),  and  will  come  and  hear  dear  little  Clara  sing 
(great  Clara  now)  whenever  you  give  me  notice  that  you 
have  an  evening  for  me  ;  for  here  I   sit,  work,  work,  work, 


243        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

and  headache,  hcadarhe,  headache,  at  tl^e  mercy  of  "Copy" 
and  Printer's  Devils,  and  am  not  blissful  enough  to  be  able 
to  risk  the  loss  of  an  evening  by  finding  you  from  home. 
With  love  to  dear  Vincent, 

Ever  your  affectionate, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

The  allusion  in  the  postscript  of  the  next  letter  refers 
to  an  Italian  gentleman's  having  told  M.  C.  C.  that  he 
rather  liked  a  London  fog  than  not,  inasmuch  as  it 
allowed  of  two  dawns  a  day, — one  at  sunrise,  the  other 
when  the  fog  lifted  off  and  cleared  away  from  the 
sky  : — 

To  M.  C.  C. 

Chelsea,  December  15th, 
My  dear  Victoria, — Though  my  head  is  so  beaten 
with  work  just  at  this  instant  as  to  be  no  better  than  a 
mashed  turnip,  and  though  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  any 
thorough  right  to  make  you  pay  threepence  because  I  am 
grateful,  yet  being  apt  to  obey  impulses  to  that  effect,  I  am 
unable  to  forbear  thanking  you  for  your  very  nice  and  kind 
letter,  so  well  written  because  you  have  a  brain,  and  so 
warmly  felt  because  you  have  a  heart.  I  love  your  love  of 
your  mother,  and  of  your  husband,  and  of  all  other  loveable 
things,  and  as  a  lover  of  them  all  myself  shall  think  it  no 
impertinence,  especially  as  they  give  me  leave,  to  beg  you  to 
continue  to  keep  a  little  corner  in  your  heart  for  the  love  of 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

P.S. — I  enjoy  heartily  your  Italian's  "  perfection  of  playful 
sophistry."  Happily  do  you  describe  it  ;  and  yet  see  what 
a  really  different  thing  he  makes  a  fog  from  those  who  do 
nothing  but  grumble  at  it,  for  everything  is  nothing  but  a 
result  of  our  sensations,  and  the  more  pleasant  we  can  make 
this,  how  lucky  we  !  There  is  a  poor  hand-pianoforte 
playing  at  my  window  this  moment  the  song  of  "  Jenny 
Jones,"  and  uuia  "  The  Light  of  Other  Days,"  I  believe  it  is 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    249 

called.  But  I  have  srot  such  a  delicious  abstract  idea  of  a 
"Jenny  Jones"  of  my  own  (which  I  intend  to  embody  in 
words),  and  there  is  something  which  falls  so  sweetly  on  some 
part  of  my  feelings  from  the  other  air  too,  that  tears  between 
sadness  and  pleasure  come  into  my  eyes.  God  bless  you 
nice  hearty  people,  you  Clarkes  ;  and  so  no  more  at  present 
from  yours  till  death. 

The  next  two  refer  to  the  "  Legend  of  Florence  :"  the 
interesting  evening  of  its  "second  reading"  having  been 
described  at  page  86.  The  sentence  respecting  the 
"  MS."  refers  to  the  fifth  Act  of  the  "  Legend  of  Flo- 
rence "  as  originally  written  by  its  author,  which  gave 
a  different  close  to  the  play  from  the  one  given  in  the 
acted  and  printed  versions.  The  copy  of  this  original 
fifth  Act,  which  Leigh  Hunt  permitted  M.  C.  C.  to 
make  from  his  own  manuscript,  is  still  in  our  possession, 
appended  to  11  is  presentation  copy  of  the  first  printed 
edition  of  the  play. 

To  C.  C.  C.  and  M.  C.  C,  Dean  Street. 

Thursday. 
My  dear  Clarke, — I  want  you  both  particularly  to- 
night to  stand  by  me  in  my  readings  to  some  nero  friends 
(very  cordial  people  nevertheless).  This  is  my  secondxQ?i^\n'g 
of  my  play,  and  I  am  to  have  a  third,  and  I  mix  up  new  and 
old  friends  together  when  I  read,  though  indeed  of  dear  old 
friends  I  retain  very  few  out  of  the  claws  of  Death  or  distance, 
and  those  in  Dean  Street,  despite  of  the  perplexities  of  this 
beautiful  world  (which  keep  apart  sometimes  those  who 
sympathize  most),  have  ever  been  among  the  dearest  to  your 
affectionate  friend, 

Dear  Charles  and  "  Molly," 

L.  H. 

To  M.  C.  C,  Dean  Street. 

Chelsea,  Feb.  20th,  1840. 
My  dear  Victoria — Do  not  think  me  ungrateful  for 


250        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

either  of  your  kind  and  most  welcome  notes  in  having  thus 
hitherto  delayed  to  answer  them.  The  conclusion  of  the 
first  brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes,  which,  I  assure  you,  the 
exclamations  it  speaks  of,  delightful  as  they  were,  did  notj 
such  a  difference  is  there  between  a  public  idea  and  the 
distinct  and  ascertained  affection  of  a  private  one.  But  I 
have  not  even  yet  recovered  from  the  hurry  and  perplexity  of 
an  exquisitely  overwhelming  correspondence,  and  I  delayed 
copies  of  the  play  to  your  father  and  you  two  (for  I  am  not 
yet  rich  enough  to  offer  it  the  only  desirable  divorce  between 
you,  that  of  giving  you  a  book  apiece)  till  I  could  send  the 
second  edition,  which  contains  the  proper  acknowledgment 
of  the  music  he  was  so  kind  as  to  send  me,  and  which  I 
expect  to  be  out  every  day,  and  the  MS.  of  the  act  you  so 
naturally  prefer  shall  come  at  the  same  time.  Meanwhile 
(with  Charles'  leave)  pray  let  me  give  you  in  imagination  the 
half  dozen  kisses  which  you  would  certainly  have  had  to 
undergo,  as  others  did,  had  you  been  near  me  on  that 
occasion.  I  suppose  your  mother  does  not  care  for  them,  or 
for  me,  as  she  does  not  send  me  a  word.  Well,  never  mind, 
I'll  sulk  and  try  to  do  without  her.  And  yet,  somehow,  give 
her  my  love  to  vex  her  ;  and  to  everybody  else  that  is  loving, 
and  grasp  Charles'  hand  for  me  till  he  cries  out. 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

L.  H. 

The  following  seven  afford  samples  of  Leigh  Hunt's 
fascinating  mode  of  implying  complimentary  things  in 
what  he  saii  to  those  honoured  by  his  regard.  He  had 
a  perfectly  charming  mode  of  paying  a  compliment;  a 
mode  that  inspired  the  ambition  to  he  all  he  imputed, 
and  that  tended  to  exalt  and  improve  the  object  of  his 
praise.  A  remark  that  I  (M.  C.  C. )  once  overheard  him 
make  at  a  dance  of  young  people  upon  my  dancing  was 
such  as  to  call  forth  a  proud  feeling  quite  other  than  that 
of  mere  gratified  vanity  :  it  caused  me  to  dance  with 
better  grace  and  spirit  ever  after.     On  another  occasion, 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.      251 

he  said:— "I  always  know  how  to  call  the  light  into 
Victorinella's  face, — by  speaking  of  her  husband."  I  may 
here  cite  a  specimen  of  the  playful  kind  of  direction  to 
which  I  have  previously  alluded,  as  one  that  he  sometimes 
put  outside  a  letter.  This  I  now  speak  of  contained  a 
press-order  for  the  theatre  ;  and  the  direction  ran  thus  : — 
"To  Mrs.  Clarke,  Mr.  Novello's,  Frith  Street,  Soho." 
(Then,  written  in  minute  characters) : — "  Private,  espe- 
cially the  outside.  Written  suddenly  out  of  a  loving 
and  not  a  petulant  impulse.  Why  don't  female  friends, 
and  other  friends,  take  walks  to  see  their  sick  friends, — 
especially  when  they  live  near  the  Hampstead  fields 
again  ?  I  hope  this  question  won't  be  considered  base 
from  one  who  sends  orders  for  theatres,  which,  it  seems, 
are  considered  favours  out  in  the  world.  I  know  nothing 
of  what  is  out  in  the  world,  but  it  is  not  my  fault  if  I  wish 
to  see  the  pleasant  people  in  it.  Hallo,  though  !  I  forgot 
I  have  not  been  lately  to  Frith  Street.  The  above  there- 
fore, has  not  been  written.     '  There's  no  such  thing  !'" 

» 

To  M.  C.  C. 

Kensington,  April  27th. 
COWDENIA  MIA, — I  am  afraid  you  must  have  thought  it 
very  strange,  my  not  sooner  answering  your  kind  and  most 
welcome  letter  with  its  good  news  about  the  Concordance  ; 
but  we  have  all  been  in  such  a  state  here  with  influenza  and 
measles,  etc.,  that  a  sort  of  cordon  sanitairc  was  drawn  round 
us,  and  even  the  people  in  Church  St.  (naturally  enough, 
Heaven  knows,  considering  how  they  have  suffered)  were 
afraid  of  having  anything  to  do  with  us,  or  receiving  even  a 
book  from  us  at  their  doors ;  so  it  made  us  take  ourselves  for  a 
set  oi \h&Ta.o?>X. plaguey  invalids  possible,  people  wholly  to  be 
eschewed  and  eschewing.  The  girls,  however,  being  at  length 
about  and  Vincent  himself,  who  has  been  longest  in  bed  of  any, 
1  think  we  may  venture  to  think  of  a  remote  knock  at  some 
person's  door  ;  and  the  coni  equence  is,  that  here  comes  to  you 


-.2        RECOLLLCTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 


■  J 


and  Carlo  mio  a  little  book,  which  has  been  waiting  for  you 
these  three  weeks.  It  does  not  contain  quite  all  that  even  / 
would  have  had  inserted ;  and  most  unluckily  the  Nile,  and 
the  song  which  your  father  set,  have  got  out  of  it  purely  by 
an  accident  of  delay  arising  out  of  my  wish  to  improve  them. 
An  rcste,  I  have  always  regretted  that  I  could  not  retain  that 
Sonnet  to  Keats  in  which  Charles  was  mentioned,  because  it 
really  was  unworthy  of  both  of  them  ;  so  I  have  taken  an 
opportunity  of  mentioning  en  passant  your  dear  good  husband 
in  the  Preface.  Toll  him,  if  he  never  saw  my  Sonnet  on  the 
Fish  and  Man  before,  I  bespeak  his  regard  for  it.  How 
rejoiced  I  was  to  see  the  specimen  of  the  Concordance  !  Item, 
to  hear  of  the  admirable  mipulse  felt  by  the  lady  when  she 
heard  the  Sonnet  about  the  lock  of  hair.  Vide  the  Rondeau 
at  page  155,  for  the  impulse  turned  into  fact, — a  very  pretty 
example,  let  me  tell  you,  for  all  honest  female  friends,  espe- 
cially Cowdenians.  I  say  no  more.  Veybuvi  sat.j  which  means 
a  word  to  the  womanly. 

Ever  dear  Charles  and  Victoria's 

Affectionate  friend,  Leigh. 

To  M.  C.  C. 

Kensington,  February  17th. 
VlTTORIA  MIA, — (For  you  know  I  always  claim  a  little  bit 
of  right  in  you,  Caroli  gratia)  I  think  I  have  repeated  the 
remark  you  speak  of  more  than  once,  and  yet  I  cannot 
remember  anything  more  like  it  at  present  than  in  some  pas- 
sages in  the  accompanying  "  Recollections  of  a  dead  body  " 
in  the  Monthly  Repository,  pages  218,219;  which  book  I 
accordingly  send  you.  I  still  think,  however,  there  must  be 
a  passage  somewhere  else,  and  I  will  look  for  it,  and  if  I  find 
it,  send  it  off  directly.  With  love  to  dear  Clarke, 
Believe  me,  ever  affectionately  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  M.  C.  C. 

Kensington,  February  1 8th. 

My  dear  Victoria, — I  send  you  overleaf  the  manifest 
passage.    Your  clue  ("  the  end  of  a  paragraph  ")  enabled  me 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    253 

to  find  it  almost  instantly  at  p.  20  of  the  Londofi  yoiirnal. 
Sempre  Clarke-issimo, 

L.  H. 

"  We  see  in  the  news  from  Scotland,  that  at  the  interment  of 
the  venerable  widow  of  Burns  (Bonnie  Jeannie  Armour,  who 
we  believe  made  him  a  very  kind  and  considerate  wife)  the 
poet's  body  was  for  a  short  time  exposed  to  view,  and  his 
aspect  found  in  singular  preservation.  An  awful  and  affect- 
ing sight  !  We  should  have  felt,  if  we  had  been  among  the 
bye-standers,  as  if  we  had  found  him  in  some  bed,  in  the 
night  of  Time  and  space,  and  as  if  he  might  have  said  some- 
thing !  grave  but  kind  words  of  course,  befitting  his  spirit  and 
that  of  the  wise  placidity  of  Death,  for  so  the  aspect  of  death 
looks.  A  corpse  seems  as  if  it  suddenly  knew  everyUiing,  and 
loas  profoundly  at  peace  in  consequence" 

To  M.  C.  C.  {with  vignette  of  Bterns's  House"). 

ViCTORlANINA  D I AVOLINA, — Friday  by  all  means.  I  will 
be  with  you  all  on  ditto  at  2  o'clock.  Greatly  pleased  am  I 
at  hearing  that  Charles  is  to  be  at  home,  for  I  began  to  think 
I  should  never  see  him  till  this  time  next  century.  Here- 
with come  the  woodcuts  I  spoke  of.  We  will  talk  farther  of 
the  subject  when  we  meet,  and  then  I  will  put  down,  on  the 
spot,  any  memorandums  you  like.  I  shall  quite  look  forward 
to  Friday. 

Ever,  you  devilish  good  people, 

Most  truly  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  M.  C.  C. 

Kensington,  September  27th. 
Cara  Vittoria  MIA, — I  address  this  to  you,  because  I 
conclude  it  is  more  likely  to  find  you  at  home,  and  because 
being  so  much  of  a  f  ;/6'-ness  with  your  husband  I  suppose 
you  could  act  for  him  as  well  as  if  he  were  on  the  spot,  and 
send  me  the  little  book  I  ask  for  in  case  he  happens  to  possess 
a  copy.  It  is  the  Literary  Pocket-book  (if  you  remember 
such  a  thing)   containing  the  collection   of  the  sayings   of 


254        RECOLLECTIONS  OE  WRITERS. 

poor  Beau  Brummel,  under  the  title  of  "  Brummelliana."  A 
szentleman  who  is  writin;?  a  life  of  him  has  sent  to  me  to 
borrow  it,  and  my  own  copy  has  disappeared.  I  need  not 
say,  that  I  should  stipulate  with  the  gentleman  to  take  every 
care  of  it,  and  that  at  all  events  I  would  become  personally 
responsible  for  its  return.  And  so  with  best  blessings  to  both 
o€  you  (for  tho'  not  a  Papist  I  am  Catholic  in  all  benedictory 
articles)  I  am  ever,  dear  Victoria, 

Your  and  his  faithful  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  M.  C.  C. 

Kensington,  October  21st. 

ViCTORIANELLTNA     CARINA,   BUONINA,— You    must    have 
thought  me  a  strange  dilatory  monster  all  tliis  while  ;  but  in 
the  first  place,  my  Keatses  (as  usual)  were  all  borrowed,  so 
that  I  had  to  wait  till  I  could  get  one  of  them  back.     In  the 
second  place,  I  did  so,  the  full  :st  (Galignani's) ;  when  lo  !  and 
behold,  there  was  no  Nile  Sonnet !  ergo,  in  the  third  place  we 
commenced  a  search  amongst  boxes  and  papers,  Mrs.  Hunt 
being  pretty  sure  that  she  had  got  it  "  somewhere ;"  but  un- 
fortunately, after  long  and  repeated  ransacking,  the  somewhere 
has  proved  a  nowhere.     Now  what  is  to  be  done?  I  have  an 
impression  on  my  memory  that  all  the  three  Sonnets  were 
published  in  the  Examiner,  and  as  your  father  has  got  an 
Examiner  (which  I  have  not)  perhaps  you  will  find  it  there. 
I  regret  extremely  that  1  cannot  meet  with  it,  particularly  as 
I  was  to  be  so  much  honoured.     Shelley's  comes  on  the  next 
page.     Oh,  what  memories  they  recall !  I  am  obliged  to  shut 
them  up  with  a  great  sigh,  and  turn  my  thoughts  elsewhere. 
The  Brummelliana  came  back  with  many  thanks.     There  is 
to  be  a  book  respecting  the  poor  Beau,  which  doubtless  we 
shall  all  see.     Tell  Charles  I  have  been  getting  up  a  volume 
called  "  True  Poetry,"  with  a  prefatory  essay  on  the  nature  of 
ditto,  and  extracts,  with  comments,  from  Spenser,  Marlow, 
Shakespeare,    Beaumont    and    Fletcher,    Milton,  Coleridge, 
Shelley,  and  Keats.     I  know  he  will  be  glad  to  hear  this.     It 
is  a  book   of  veritable   pickles   and   preserves;  rather  say, 
nectar  and  ambrosia  ;  and  there  is  not  a  man  in  England 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     255 

who  will  relish  or  understand  the  Divine  bill  of  fare  better 
than  he.     With  kindest  love  ever  his  and  yours, 

Madamina, 

Leigh  Hunt. 
To  M.  C.  C.  Kensington,  November  12th. 

ViCTORiANELLINUCCiA, — You  would  hava  heard  from  me 
earlier  in  the  week  than  this,  had  I  not  been  suffering  under 
a  cold  and  cough  of  such  severity,  that  it  affected  the  very 
muscles  of  my  neck  to  a  degree  which  rendered  it  painful  for 
me  to  do  anything  with  my  head  but  to  let  it  lie  back  on  the 
top  of  an  armchair,  and  so  direct  its  eyes  on  a  book  and  read. 
Of  all  kinds  of  approbations  of  my  scribblements — nay,  I  will 
call  them  writings  in  consideration  of  their  sincerity  and  their 
approvers — there  is  none  that  ever  pleases  me  so  much  as  those 
like  Mr.  Peacock's;  and  I  beg  you  to  make  him  my  grateful 
acknowledgments,  as  well  as  to  accept  them  yourself  for 
sending  them  to  me  in  a  letter  so  delightful.  As  to  any 
violation  of  modesty  in  your  showing  me  what  he  says  of  you, 
in  the  first  place  there  is  no  such  violation  ;  and  secondly,  if 
there  could  be,  it  is  the  privilege  of  women  so  really  modest 
(and  the  wicked  exquisites  know  it)  to  be  able  to  set  this 
modesty  aside  on  occasions  gloriously  appropriate,  and  so 
make  us  love  it  the  more  on  all  others.  With  coi-dial  remem- 
brances to  your  traveller, 

Your  ever  affectionate 

Leigh  Hunt. 

The   next   two   are   charmingly  characteristic  of  the 

writer. 

To  V.  N. 

Kensington,  25th  February,  1843. 

My  dear  Vincent,— Lemures  sometimes  called  Lemurs 
(as  in  Milton,  Ode  to  Nativity, — 

"The  Lars  and  Lemurs  moan  with  midnight  plaint")  is 
accented  on  the  first  syllable  The  Lemurs  were  the  departed 
souls  of  the  wicked,  as  the  Lars  or  Lares  were  those  of  the 
good  ;  so  the  former  came  and  bothered  people,  while  the 
latter  befriended  them.  A  fellow  who  leaves  us  his  male- 
diction, and  does  not  leave  us  his  money,  is  a  Lemur.     An 


2^.5       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

old  lady,  who  was  tiresome  in  her  life,  and  who  says  that  her 
spirit  will  watch  over  the  premises  to  see  we  behave  properly 
is  a  sort  of  fair  Lemur ;  for  she  candidly  gives  us  notice  to 
quit 

I  have  been  going  to  write  to  you  every  day  to  thank  you 
for  your  kind  present  of  the  music,  before  hearing  it,  and  in 
despair,  just  now,  of  hearing  it  properly.  You  recollect  you 
asked  me  to  give  you  my  opinion  ^/jr  hearing  it.  How  can  [ 
doubt,  however,  that  it  will  be  very  delightful,  considering  who 
selected  and  harmonized  it  ?  The  next  time  I  see  you  I 
hope  to  be  able  to  speak  from  the  particular  experience. 
Ever,  my  dear  Vincent, 

Your  affectionate  old  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  V.  N. 

32,  Edwardes  Square,  2nd  July. 

My  dear  Vincent, — I  am  so  hard  driven  just  at  this 
moment,  that  I  can  but  afford  a  hasty  word  of  thanks  even  for 
such  presents  as  yours  and  dear  Mary's  (to  whom  pray  give  an 
einbracmgword  for  me) ;  but  I  need  not  entreat  you  to  believe, 
that  that  word  contains  a  thousand  kind  thoughts.  As  to 
coming  to  see  you,  it  is  what  I  long  for  ;  but  with  the  excep- 
tion of  one  unavoidable  engagement  for  next  Saturday  week, 
I  have  been  obliged  to  "  cni"  all  my  friends,  as  far  as  visiting 
ihcm  goes,  till  my  new  play  is  finished  (don't  you  feel  a  par- 
ticularly great  gash  }  for  the  "  cutting  "  is  of  necessity  pro- 
portioned to  the  love).  On  the  other  hand,  I  take  it  particu- 
larly kind  of  them,  if  they  in  the  meantime  come  to  see  me^ 
while  resting  of  an  evening  after  my  work  (for  the  going  out 
to  visit  after  dinner  knocks  me  up  for  the  next  day).  Im- 
pudently, nay  lovingly  then,  let  me  request  you  to  do  so, 
and  Clarke  also,  and  dear  Vic,  if  they,  or  she,  or  all  of  you, 
or  each,  or  either,  will  come  (I  have  two  loves  of  the  name  of 
"  Vic  "  now,  Clarke  and  Prince  Albert  permitting  !)  Tea  will 
be  always  ready  for  you  any  time  between  six  and  eight,  and 
hearty  thanks,  From  your  affectionate  friend, 

L.  H. 

P.S.     The  moment  my  play  is  finished,  I  will  come,  and 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     257 

come  again,  as  fist  as  possible.  Tell  Clarke  my  new  study  is 
very  snug  and  nice,  and  that  I  have  a  bit  of  vine  over  my 
window.     Bid  him  make  haste  and  see  it. 

The  following  breathes  all  his  old  affectionate  spirit  of 
friendship  and  hope  for  the  best : — 

To  M.  S.  N. 

Phillimore  Terrace,  Kensington, 

August  4th  (probably  185 1 ). 

My  dear  Mary,— Your  letter,  full  of  warm  and  most 
welcome  old  friendship,  to  say  nothing  (which  means  much) 
of  the  box  of  my  favourite  sweetmeats,  came  like  a  beam  of 
sunshine  upon  a  house  full  of  trouble ;  for  your  husband's 

namesake  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill But  we  have  all 

experienced  these  sorrows  in  the  course  of  our  hves,  so  I  will 
say  no  more  of  them. 

Truly,  in  spite  of  anxiety,  did  I  rejoice  to  think  of  your 
southern  rest,  and  our  patient's  condition  has  made  us  doubly 
desirous  to  hear  more  of  a  place,  where  you  so  naturally  wish 
to  have  more  old  friends  near  you,  and  where  we  should  be 
so  willing  to  find  ourselves.  .  .  .  We  might  pass  some  months 
perhaps  at  Nice,  or  some  longer  time,  as  cheaply  as  we  live  in 
tliis  neighbourhood  (where,  by  the  way,  I   have  not  yet  seen 

the  exhibition,  so  anxious  have  I  been  !) A  thousand 

recollections  of  past  times  often  spring  up  in  my  mind,  con- 
nected with  yoMrselves  and  other  friends,  all  loving,  and 
wishing  I  could  have  made  them  all  haipy  for  ever.  But 
some  day  I  believe  we  shall  be  so,  in  some  Heavenly  and 
kindly  place.  Meantime,  just  now,  I  shall  dry  my  eyes,  and 
fancy  myself  with  you  at  Nice,  imitating  some  happy  old 
evening  in  Percy  Street.  We  would  have  a  little  supper,  pre- 
cisely of  the  old  sort,  and  fancy  ourselves  not  a  1  it  older  in 
years  ;  and  "  Victoria  "  if  she  were  there,  should  put  on  a  pina- 
fore to  help  the  illusion  ;  and  we  would  repeat  the  old  jokes, 
and  at  all  events  love  one  another  and  so  deserve  to  have  all 
the  happiness  we  could.  Now  is  not  this  a  thing  to  look 
forward  to,  in  case  I  can  take  the  journey  ?  Maiianne,  who 
sends  cordialest  greetings,  looks  up  with  a  bright  eye  at  what 

S 


25S       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

you  say  about  rheumatism,  and  asks  "me  if  it  is  possible  we 
could  go  ?  "  Possible."  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is,  till  I 
hear  and  see  further  ;  but  1  will  seriously  hope  it  not  other- 
wise ;  and  at  all  events  it  is  a  thought  with  too  many  good 
things  in  it  to  give  up  before  we  must.  Kindest  remembrances 
to  all  around  you,  and  a  happy  meeting  somewhere  still  on 
earth,  should  Nice  not  allow  it.  What  charming  things  are  in 
your  daughter's  Shakespearian  books. 

Your  ever  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

The   two   next   felicitously   hit   off  a  combination  of 
business  seriousness  with  old-acquaintance  kindliness  : — 

To  J.  Alfred  Novello. 

Hammersmith,  May  8th, 

Monday  morning,  10  o'clock. 

Dear  Alfred, — Your  letter  has  only  this  moment  reached 

me.     You  will  find  the  parody  on  the  next  leaf  ;  at  least  it  is 

all  which  I  recollect,  and  to  the  best  of  my  recollection  there 

was  really  nothing  more.     It  is  not  masterly,  tho'  not  un= 

I  don't  know  the  author. 

Yours  ever, 

L.  H. 

GENTLY  STIR  AND  BLOW  THE  FIRE. 

Gently  stir  and  blow  the  fire, 

Lay  the  mutton  down  to  roast ; 
Dress  it  quickly,  I  desire  ; 
In  the  dripping  put  a  toast  ; 
Hunger  that  I  may  remove  ; 
Mutton  is  the  meat  I  love. 

On  the  dresser  see  it  He  ; 

Oh,  the  charming  white  and  red  1 
Finer  meat  ne'er  met  my  eye  ; 
On  the  sweetest  grass  it  fed. 
Lee  the  jack  go  swiftly  round  ; 
Let  me  have  it  nicely  brown' J« 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    259 

To  J.  A.  N. 

7,  Cornwall  Road,  Hammersmith, 
Deer.  13th, 

My  dear  Alfred — (For,  notwithstanding  your  jovial 
proportions  and  fine  bass  voice,  I  have  danced  you  on  my 
knee  when  a  child,  and  Christmas  topics  and  dear  old 
memories  will  not  allow  me,  out  of  very  regard,  to  call  you 
"sir")  I  enjoyed  exceedingly  your  kind  recollection  of  me 
and  the  place  which  you  gave  that  Christmas  effusion  of 
mine  in  the  midst  of  all  those  harmonious  advertisements. 
I  seemed  to  be  made  the  centre  of  some  groat  musical  party. 
I  see  also  my  dear  old  friend  "  C.  C.  C."  as  touching  and 
cordial  as  ever. 

I  need  not  say  how  heartily  I  return  your  Christmas 
wishes.  I  have  had  a  great  sorrow  to  endure  of  late  years — 
one  that  often  seemed  all  but  unbearable — but  it  is  softening, 
and  I  never,  thank  God,  wished  any  other  person's  happiness 
to  be  less  during  it,  but  greater.  How  desirable  then  to  me 
must  be  the  happiness  of  my  friends. 

I  take  this  opportunity  of  asking  a  question  which  I  have 
often  been  going  to  put  to  some  one  acquainted  with  musico- 
commercial  aftairs,  of  which  I  am  totally  ignorant  ;  will  you 
tell  me  at  one  of  your  leisure  moments  (if  such  things  there 
be)  whether  a  man  of  letters  like  myself  could  purchase  a 
musical  instrument  with  his  pen,  instead  of  his  purse  ;  that 
is  to  say,  for  such  and  such  an  amount  of  literary  matter, 
verse  or  prose,  or  both,  as  might  be  agreed  upon  ?  and  if  so, 
what  sort  of  matter  would  be  likeliest  to  be  required  of  him  ? 

Should  you  be  ever  wandering  this  way,  and  would  give 
me  a  look  in  (I  have  tea  and  bread  and  cheese  ready  for 
anybody  from  6  o'clock  onwards),  I  have  long  had  a  musico- 
literary  project  or  two  in  my  head  which  possibly  you  might 
not  be  unwilling  to  hear  of. 

Ever  sincerely  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

In  the  following  two  there  are  traces  of  the  cordia 
sincerity  with  which  Leigh  Hunt  praised  and  encouraged 

s  2 


26o       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

the  attempts  of  other  writers.  The  MS.  "  Lecture " 
was  lent  to  him  for  perusal,  and  he  returned  it  scored 
with  approval  marks  and  valuable  marginal  remarks. 
Tiiis  was  a  delightful  mode  he  had  of  manifesting  his  in- 
terest in  and  careful  reading  through  of  such  works  as  his 
friends  had  written;  and  so  precious  were  his  pencilled 
notes  of  this  kind  to  the  writer  of  "  Kit  Bam's  Adventures," 
and  "  The  Iron  Cousin,"  that  she  asked  him  to  follow  the 
plan  suggested  by  the  crafty  magician  in  "  Aladdin,"  and  to 
*'  exchange  old  lamps  for  new  ones,"  sending  her  back 
his  well-worn  presentation  copies  of  the  two  books  in 
question,  for  which  she  sent  liim  fresh  copies.  In  conse- 
quence of  his  kind  compliance  with  her  wish,  we  now 
possess  the  first-sent  copy  of  "  Kit  Bam,"  inscribed  "to 
the  grown-up  boy,  Leigh  Hunt,''  which  contains  nu- 
merous marginal  pencilled  comments;  one  of  which 
(playfully  Vv^ritten  on  the  page  where  is  described  a 
vision  of  the  dead  Felix  Morton  with  his  wife  and  child 
wafted  to  the  sky),  runs  thus:— "A  mistake.  The 
'  father '  of  the  winged  child  is  still  alive ;  and  for  that 
matter,  the  rogue  of  a  charming  writer  who  brought  him 
forth ;  I  shall  not  say  wlio,  as  we  happen  not  to  be 
married.  F.  M.  sen."  This  was  Leigh  Hunt's  plea- 
sant mode  of  referring  to  a  confession  I  (M.  C.  C.)  had 
made  him  when  I  sent  him  the  book,  that  I  once  upon 
a  time  had  heard  him  say  a  pretty  idea  for  a  story  would 
be  that  of  a  child  born  with  wings,  owing  to  the  strong 
yearning  of  his  mother  to  reach  a  distant  place  constantly 
within  her  view  but  beyond  her  attainment,  and  that  I 
had  adopted  the  idea  and  had  ventured  to  work  it  out 
in  this  story.  We  also  possess  the  copy  of  "  The  Iron 
Cousin  "  scored  repeatedly  by  Leigh  Hunt,  and  on  the 
blank  pages  at  the  end  of  which  he  has  written  in  pencil : 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    261 

— "  There  is  no  story  (so  to  speak)  in  this  book ;  the 
explanation  to  which  the  lovers  come,  they  might  liave 
come  to  much  sooner  (the  fault  most  common  perhaps 
to  novels  in  general),  and  the  illiterate  persons  in  it.  not 
excepting  the  Squire,  often  make  use  of  language  too 
literate.  Nevertheless,  to  a  reader  like  myself,  who 
prefers  character  and  passion  out  and  out  to  plot  or  to  a 
thorough  consistency  on  those  minor  points,  the  book  is 
very  interesting.  Its  descriptive  power  is  of  a  kind  the 
liveliest  and  most  comprehensive  \  its  powers  of  expression 
are  still  rarer, — very  rare  indeed  either  with  man  or 
woman,  the  latter  particularly ;  so  well  has  the  authoress 
profited  by  her  long  and  loving  abode  in  the  house  (for 
'  School '  does  not  express  the  thing)  of  Shakespeare  ; 
and  what  is  rarest  of  all,  there  is  some  of  the  daintiest 
and  noblest  love-making  (and  \owt-taking)  in  it,  which  I 
can  recollect  in  any  book."  The  reader  will,  we  trust, 
forgive  the  seeming  egoism  of  giving  this  tran3crii)tion, 
for  the  sake  of  the  genuine  thought  of  Leigh  Hunt  him- 
self and  his  generous  commendation  which  filled  our 
heart  as  we  copied  out  the  faint  pencilled  traces,  so 
precious  to  us  that  when  we  first  received  them  we  passed 
them  through  milk  to  prevent  their  being  rubbed  out  by 
time ; — 

To  C.  C.  C. 

Hammersmith,  Novr.  19th,  1854. 
My  dear  Clarke, — I  have  been  thinking  of  the  Hamlet 
and  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  hopuig  the  lecture  is  going 
to  be  delivered  at  some  reachable  place,  fearing  I  might  not 
be  able  (owing  to  a  cough  and  catarrh)  and  wondering 
whether  it  would  be  possible  to  hear  it  here  some  evening,  in 
this  my  hut,  between  tea  and  supper,  I  being  the  sole  poor, 
but  grateful  audience.  Such  things  you  must  know  have 
been,  though  I  don't  at  all  assume  that  they  can  be  in  this 


262      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

instance,  however  great  the  good  will.  But  if  not,  might  I 
read  it  ?  I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  would  be  perused  in 
strictest  confidence,  except  as  far  as  you  might  allow  me  to 
speak  of  it. 

Nothing  is  more  just,  though  I  say  it  who  should  (one 
likes  to  give  impudent  baulks  sometim.es  to  prudish  old 
sayings),  than  what  you  think  in  regard  to  my  ciitical 
sincerity.  I  love  too  much  to  praise  where  I  can,  not  to 
preserve  the  acceptability  of  the  praise  by  qualifying  when  I 
must. 

Besides,  half  my  life  has  been,  and  is,  a  martyrdom  to 
truth,  and  I  should  be  absurd  indeed  to  stultify  it  with  the 
other  half.  My  faults  have  enough  to  answer  for  without 
being  under  the  necessity  of  owning  to  any  responsibility  in 
the  lying  and  cheating  direction  ;  but  where  am  I  running 
to  ?  I  always,  as  far  as  I  had  the  means  of  judging,  took 
your  wife  to  be  a  thoroughly  loving  woman  (if  I  may  so 
speak)  in  every  particle  of  her  nature  ;  and  I  hold  it  for  an 
axiom,  though  exclusives  in  either  the  material  or  spiritual 
would  count  it  a  paradox,  that  it  is  only  such  persons  who 
can  have  thoioughly  fine  perceptions  into  any  nature  what- 
soever. In  other  words,  incompleteness  cannot  possibly 
judge  completeness.  So  with  this  fine  peremptory  sentence 
I  complete  this  very  complete  letter  of  four  sides  down  to 
the  cover,  and  with  all  loving  respect, 

My  dear  Clarke, 

Am  hers  and  yours, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  M.  C.  C. 

Hammersmith,  January  8th,  1S55. 
ViCTORIANELLlNA  AMABILE  E  CARINA, — Very  pleasant  to 
me  was  the  sight  of  your  handwriting,  yet  so  much  the  more 
unpleasant  it  is  to  be  forced  to  write  to  you  briefly.  The 
address  of  the  London  Library  is  12,  St.  James'  Square. 
Circumstances  have  conspired  to  hamper  me  with  three 
books  at  once,  the  "  Kensington  "  aforesaid,  a  collection  of 
my  "Stories  in  verse"  with  revisals,  new  Preface  and  a 
continuation  of  my  autobiography.     The  consec^uence  is  that 


LEIGH  HUN  J  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    263 

I  have  been  overworked  in  the  midst  of  severe  cold  and 
cough  (the  latte'-  the  longer  and  rather  severest  I  have  yet 
had,  for  cough  I  always  have)  and  thus  I  am  able  only  to 
continue  the  reading  of  Charles'  lecture,  attractive  as  it  is, 
by' driblets  (availing  myself  of  the  additional  time  he  gave 
me,  though  not  all  of  it),  and  am  forced  still  to  postpone 
writing  to  Alfred.  Give,  pray,  my  kindest  remembrancej  to 
him.  Tell  him  I  tried  1  ard  to  write  an  article  for  the 
Alttsical  Times  by  the  20th  of  December,  but  could  not  do 
it  ;  that  I  wished  very  much  to  begin  the  New  Year  with 
him  ;  that  I  still  purpose  to  go  on  (having  more  tliin  one 
special  object  in  so  doing)  ;  that  I  will  recommence  the  very 
first  moment  I  can  ;  and  that  meantime  1  rejoice  to  see  the 
honour  done  to  my  Christmas  verses  by  Mr.  Macfarren's 
music.  I  have  not  heard  it,  for  I  have  heard  nothing  but 
the  voice  of  booksellers  and  the  sound  of  my  pen  and  my 
lungs  ;  but  I  shall  make  the  first  acquaintance  with  it  feasil^le, 
and  look  to  it  as  a  greeting  at  the  close  of  some  toilsome 
vista. 

Dear  Victoria,  Mary,  or  whatsoever  title  best  please  thine 
ear,  I  am  ever  the  sincere  old  liiend  of  you  and  yours, 

LEiGti  Hunt. 

I  need  not  say  how  heartily  I  reciprocate  your  Christmas 
wishes. 

In  the  Autumn  of  1856,  when  we  were  going  abroad,  to 
live  in  the  milder  climate  of  Nice,  we  went  to  take  leave  of 
dear  Leigh  Hunt  at  his  pretty  little  cottage  in  Cornwall 
^oad.  Hammersmith,  We  found  him,  as  of  old,  with 
simple  but  tasteful  environments,  his  books  and  papers 
about  him,  engravings  and  plaster-casts  around  his  room; 
while  he  himself  was  Tall  of  his  wonted  cordiality  and 
cheerful  warmth  of  reception  for  old  friends.  The 
silvered  hair,  the  thin  pale  cheek,  the  wondrous  eyes, 
were  no  less  beautiful  in  their  aged  aspect  than  in  their 
youthful  one  ;  while  his  charm  of  manner  was,  if  anything 
enhanced  by  the  tender  softening  of  years.     We, — who 


264       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

could  well  remember  the  brilliancy  and  fascination  of  his 
bearing  in  youthful  manhood,  the  effect  of  bright  expec- 
tant pleasure  attending  his  entrance  into  a  company,  the 
influence  of  his  general  handsomeness  with  refined  bearing 
and  beauty  of  countenance,  especially  the  vivacity  and 
sparkling  expression  of  his  eyes,  still  so  dark  and  fine, 
though  with  a  melancholy  depth  in  them  now,— felt  as 
though  he  were  even  more  than  ever  beautiful  to  look  upon. 
It  was  perhaps  an  unconscious  consciousness  (if  the  ex- 
pression may  be  allowed)  of  this  personal  attractiveness 
on  his  own  part,  which  lent  that  ease  and  grace  and  self- 
possession  to  his  demeanour  which  was  always  so  inex- 
pressibly winning  :  it  arose  not  from  self-complacency  so 
much  as  from  imagination  and  instinctive  feeling  of  its 
giving  him  a  pleasant  ascendancy  over  those  whom  he 
addressed.  This  ascendancy  it  was  that  inspired  the 
childish  impulse  (previously  recorded)  to  creep  round  the 
back  of  the  sofa  and  lay  a  loving  cheek  on  his  resting 
hand, — that  hand  so  slender,  so  white,  so  true  a  poet's 
hand.  It  was  this  ascendancy  that  often  thrilled  the 
little  girl's  heart  with  a  fancy  for  wishing  to  nurse  his  foot, 
as  she  watched  its  shapely  look,  and  lithe  tossing  to  and 
fro  in  the  earnestness  of  his  talk.  It  was  this  innate 
personal  ascendancy  peculiar  to  Leigh  Hunt  that  exer- 
cised its  amplest  sway  when  we  went  to  bid  him  good-bye 
in  1856.  The  ring  of  his  hair  was  worn  on  this  occasion, 
and  shown  to  him  between  two  hoops  of  pearl  as  the 
"black  diamond"  treasured  in  our  family;  he,  taking  the 
incident  in  his  own  tenderly  gracious  way  and  with  his 
own  gift  of  tenderly  recognizant  words. 

After  we  left  England  we  received  several  letters  from 
him,  among  which  were  the  two  following  : — 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.    265 

To  C.  C.  C. 

7,  Cornwall  Road,  Hammersmith, 
July  7tb,  1857. 

My  dear  Friends — Dear  Ciarke  and  dear  Mary 
Victoria, — (for  you  know  I  don't  like  to  part  with  the  old 
word)  the  first  letter  from  Nice  came  duly  to  hand  ;  but  for 
the  reason  kindly  contemplated  by  itself,  I  could  not  answer 
it  at  the  moment,  and  the  same  reason  made  me  delay  the 
answer,  and  now  still  makes  me  say  almost  equally  little  on 
that  particular  point,  except  that  I  sigh  as  I  am  wont  to  do 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  thank  you  with  tears  for 
the  privilege  of  silence  accorded  me. 

Were  it  not  for  dear  friends  and  connexions  still  living,  I 
should  now  feel  as  if  I  belonged  wholly  to  the  next  world  ; 
but  while  they  remain  to  me,  or  I  to  them,  I  must  still  do  iny 
best  to  make  the  most  of  the  world  I  am  in,  in  order  to  de- 
serve their  comfort  of  me  during  the  remainder  of  my  pro- 
gress to  that  other  ;  where  I  do  believe  that  all  the  wants 
which  hearts  and  natures  yearn  to  be  lovingly  made  up,  will 
be  made  up,  as  surely  as  in  this  world  fruits  are  sounded  and 
perfected  (final  short-comings  of  any  kind  being  not  to  be 
thought  possible  in  God's  works)  and  where  "  all  tears  will 
be  wiped  from  all  faces."  Why  was  any  text  inconsistent 
with  that,  ever  suffered  to  remain  in  the  book  that  contains 
it  ?  But  I  am  talking  when  I  thought  to  become  mute. 
Be  you  mute  for  me.  I  shall  take  your  silence  for  dumb  and 
loving  squeezes  of  the  hand.  Winter  here  has  been  as  severe 
with  us,  after  its  severer  kind,  as  it  has  been  with  you  in  the 
midst  of  its  lemon-blossoms  and  green  peas.  I  hope  your 
summer  has  turned  out  as  proportionately  excellent,  and 
then  you  wiil  have  had  a  summer  indeed  ;  for  we  have  been 
astonished  ai  our  June  without  fires,  and  our  continuously 
blue  weather.  Your  walks  are  noble  truly,  and  would  be 
wonderful  if  you  had  not  a  companion  ;  a  thing  which  always 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I  could  walk  anywhere  and  for  ever  ; 
that  is  to  say,  if  anything  like  such  a  companion  as  yours, 
but  doubtless  stoppings  would  occasionally  be  found  de- 
sirable, especially  at  inns,  or  where  "j/  vende  birraP 
"  Strada  SinolLtl "  is  delightful.     By-and-by  there  will  be 


2  66      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

such  streets  all  over  the  worlu.  People  will  know,  not  only 
the  name  of  a  street,  but  the  reason  for  it,  "and  by  the 
visions  splendid,"  be  •'  on  their  way  attended."  Let  who 
else  will  Hve  in  "Smollett  Street,"  Matthew  Brambles,  and 
Randoms,  and  Bowlings  will  be  met  there  by  passengers,  as 
long  as  the  name  endures.  I  see  the  last,  turning  a  corner 
with  little  Roderick  in  his  hand,  hitching  up  his  respectable, 
bad-fitting  trousers,  and  jerking  the  tobacco  out  of  his  mouth 
at  the  thought  of  unfeeling  old  hunkses  of  grandfathers. 
Your  finale  respecting  Burns  was  to  good  final  purpose  ;  and 
I  do  not  wonder  at  its  exciting  the  applause  of  the  genial 
portion  of  his  countrymen  ;  for  such  only  would  be  the  por- 
tion to  come  to  your  lectures.  They  must  have  felt  it  like 
an  utterance  of  their  own  hearts,  let  free  for  the  first  time  ; 
at  least,  thus  publicly.  To  find  fault  with  Burns  is  to  find 
fault  with  the  excess  of  geniality  of  Nature  herself ;  which, 
tho'  like  the  sun  it  may  do  harm  here  and  there,  or  seem  to 
do  it  in  its  hottest  places,  is  a  universal  beneficence,  and 
could  not  be  perhaps  what  it  is  without  them.  Nor  a^e 
those  irremediable  to  such  as  are  in  Nature's  secrets,  or  "to 
the  matter  born."  The  life  of  Burns  by  Robert  Chambers,  a 
serene  and  sweet-minded  philosophic  kind  of  man,  is  un- 
doubtedly, as  you  say,  the  best  of  all  the  lives  of  him 

I  long  to  see  the  fifteen  famous  women,'  and  am  truly  obliged 
by  the  desire  expressed  to  the  publisher  to  send  it  me.  It  is 
impossible  they  should  be  in  better  hands  than  in  those  of 
the  bringer-up  of  the  women  of  Shakespeare  ;  people,  that 
make  a  Mormon  of  me  ;  and,  with  your  leave,  a  Molly— ^^ 
well  as  a  /"c/ygamist.  Indeed  with  the  help  of  another  /,  the 
latter  word  might  express  both.  You  see  you  have  made  me 
a  Httle  wild,  with  the  compliment  paid  to  my  portrait.  But 
I  am  no  less  respectful  at  heart  ;  as  in  truth  you  know  ; 
otherwise  I  should  not  be  where  you  have  put  me.  So  I  feel 
new  times  and  old  mingled  beautifully  together,  with  the 
champagne  once  more  over  my  hair,  and  all  kindly  nights  and 
mornings,  and  outpourings  of  heart  as  well   as  wine,  and 

»  In  allusion  to  "World-noied  Women,"  written  by  M.  C.  C. 
for  Messrs.  Appleton,  of  New  York,  in  1857. 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     267 

laughters  and  tears  too,  that  make  such  extremes  meet  as 
veritably  seem  to  join  heaven  and  earth  and  render  the 
most  transient  joys  foretastes  of  those  that  are  to  last  for 
ever. 

Ah  me  !  Thus  preach  I  my  first  sermon  to  loving  eyes 
from  my  wall  in  Mais  on  Quaglia,  at  Nice. 

The  other  day  I  got  news  at  last  of  the  safe  arrival  of  my 
box  of  books  and  manuscripts  (for  the  American  press)  at 
Washington,  Pennsylvania,  which  it  had  reached  by  a  cir- 
cuitous progress  thro'  other  Washingtons,  caused  by  my 
ignorance  of  there  being  any  other  Washington  than  one, 
and  so  having  omitted  the  Pennsylvania.  One  London,  I 
thought,  one  Washington  ;  forgetting  that  London  is  a  word 
of  unknown  meaning,  therefore  who  cares  to  repeat  it  ? 
Whereas  Washington  was  a  man,  of  whom  men  are  proud  ; 
and  hence  it  seems,  there  are  70  Washingtons  !  All  goes 
well  with  my  "works"  (grand  sound  !)  and  they  are  to  come 
out,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  the  former  forthwith  ;  and 
special  direction  shall  be  sent  to  Boston  for  all  being  for- 
w^arded  duty  free  to  Maison  Ouaglia,  in  return  for  my  "  fifteen 
women "  (strange,  impossible  sound  of  payment  !)  so  I  do 
not  send  you  the  list  you  speak  of,  meantime  ;  only  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  what  prose  works  of  mine  you  may  happen 
to  possess  at  present,  in  case,  if  the  publication  of  them  in 
America  be  comparatively  delayed,  I  may  be  able  to  send  you 
some  of  them,  such  as  I  think  you  would  best  like  ;  for  there 
is  a  talk  of  republishing  those  in  England.  Besides,  I  need 
room  for  an  extract  which  I  had  got  to  make  for  Victoria 
from  my  friend  Craik's  "  English  of  Shakespeare."  I  must 
not  even  stop  to  enjoy  with  you  some  quotations  from  Dray- 
ton and  Jonson,  but  I  must  not  omit  to  congratulate  you  both, 
and  everybody  else,  on  the  new  edition  of  Shakespeare, 
especially  as  I  reckon  upon  her  turning  her  unique  knowledge 
of  him  to  dainty  account  in  her  Preface,  and  would  suggest 
to  that  end  (if  it  be  not  already  in  her  head)  that  she  would 
let  us  know  what  particular  flowers,  feelings,  pursuits,  read- 
ings, and  other  things  great  and  small  he  appears  to  have 
liked  best.  Other  people  might  gather  this  from  her  Con- 
cordance, but  who  so  well  as  she  that  made  it  ?     Therefore 


268       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

pray  let  her  forestall  those  who  might  tal<e  it  ii\to  their  heada 
to  avail  themselves  of  the  information  afforded  them  by  that 
marvellous  piece  of  love  and  industry.  But  to  the  extract  : 
....  Shall  I  send  my  copy  of  it  to  Nice  .''  It  would  interest 
editorship  and  occasion  would  be  found  to  say  a  grateful  and 
deserved  word  for  it  in  the  introduction  to  Julius  Caesar.  I 
lend  the  "  Iron  Cousin  "  to  all  understanding  persons,  and 
they  are  unanimous  in  their  praises.  Itein. — 1  trust  to  read 
and  mark  it  again,  myself,  shortly.  Loving  friends,  both,  I 
am  your  ever  loving  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

To  "  Mr.  and  Mrs  Cowden  Clarke  "  as  men  call  them. 
To  Charles  and  Mary-Victoria  among  the  Gods. 

Feb.  4th,  1858,  Hammersmith. 

My  DEAR  Friends,— Tho'  it  was  a  very  delightful  moment 
to  me  when  I  was  again  received  by  the  house  in  that  man- 
ner— far  more  delightful,  for  reasons  which  you  may  guess, 
than  when  I  was  first  received,  (with  such  strange  memories 
sometimes  will  the  brain  of  a  poor  humanist  be  haunted)  yet 
the  crown  of  the  crown  of  congratulation  is,  after  all  that 
which  one  receives  from  families  and  old  friends  ;  terrible 
nevertheless,  as  the  absence  is  oi  that  which  one  misses.  Bitter 
was  the  moment,  after  that  other  moment,  when  on  returning 
home,  I  could  not  go  first  of  all,  and  swiftly,  into  one  particular 
room.  But  I  ought  to  give  you  none  but  glad  thoughts,  in 
return  for  the  gladness  which  you  have  added  to  mine.  I 
had  several  times  reproached  myself  for  not  writing  to  thank 
certain  most  kind  remembrances  of  me  in  Mtisiuil  Times^ 
and  then  (as  always  seems  to  be  the  retributive  case)  comes 
this  loving  congratulation,  before  I  have  spoken.  But  work 
is  mine,  you  must  know,  still  and  ever,  and  must  be  so  till 
my  dying  day,  only  leaving  me  too  happy  at  last,  if  I  do  but 
render  it  as  impossible  for  any  one  individual  in  private  to 
mistake  me,  as  it  seems  to  be  with  the  blessed  public,  for 
whom,  as  I  sometimes  feared,  might  be  the  case,  I  have  not 
gone  through  my  martyrdoms  (such  as  they  are)  in  vain. 
Great,  great  indeed  was  my  joy  when  they  seemed  as  it 
were,  at  that  moment,  to  take  me  again,  and  in  a  speciaJ 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     269 

manner,  into  their  arms,  the  warm  arms  of  my  fellow-crea- 
tures. And  now  come  yours,  my  deai  friends,  about  me  as 
warmly.  Imagine  me  returning  them  with  an  ardour  of 
heart,  which  no  snows  on  my  head  can  extinguish. 

A  few  weeks  ago  there  came  to  me  from  a  certain  pleasant- 
named  house  in  New  York  a  most  magnificent  book,  full  of 
handsome  ladies,  and  better  comments  upon  them,  which 
till   this   moment    I    have   thanked   neither   publishers    nor 
authoress  for,  having  wished  to  read  it  thro'  first  in  order 
to  thank  properly.     My  acknowledgments  for  it  go  accord- 
ingly to  Nice  and  New  York  at  the  same  time.     The  ladies 
are  somewhat  too  much  of  a  family,  and  of  a  drawing-room 
family,  especially  in  the  instances   of  the   divine  peasant, 
Joan  of  Arc,  of  lovely-hearted  Pocahontas,  who  must  still 
have  been  a  Cherokee  or  Chickasaw  beauty,  and  of  what 
ought   to  have   been    the   "beautiful   plain"  face   of  your 
Sappho.     What  a  pity  the  artist  had  not  genius  enough  in 
him  to  anticipate  the  happy  audacity  of  that  praise  !     The 
finery  of  her  company  1  think,  (for  she  seems  to  have  guessed 
what  sort  of  a  book  the  publishers  would  make  of  it)  has 
seduced  our  dear  Mary-Victoria  into  a  style  florider  and 
more  elaborate  than  when  she  poured  her  undressed  heart 
out  in  the  charming  "  Iron  Cousin  "  (my  copy  of  which  by 
the  v/ay,  has  just  come  home  to  me  again  in  beautiful  re- 
laxed and  dignified  condition  from  its  many  perusals)  ;  but 
still  the  heart  as  well  as  head  is  there,  and  I  have  read  every 
bit  of  the  book  with  interest ;  unbribed,  I  cannot  add,  see- 
ing what  abundant    waim-hearted   reminiscences  of  me  it 
contains ;    too   many  for   it,   I   should   have  feared   a  little 
while  ago  ;  but  not  just  now,  for  the  promised  edition  of  my 
*'  poetical  works  "  has  come  out  at   Boston,  and  being  wel- 
comed with  as  universal  cordiality  in  America,  as  my  play 
has  been  by  the  press  in  London  (for  such  you  must  know 
in  addition  to  my  reception  on  the  stage,  is  the  fact :  at  least 
so  I  am  told,  and  have  reason  to  believe  ;  for  I  possess  up- 
wards of  twenty  eulogies  from  daily  and  weekly  newspapers 
and  reviews,  and  I  hear  there  are  half  as  many  more,  which 
I  am  yet  to  see).     What  think  you  of  this  unexpected  (for 
indeed  I  never  looked  for  it)  winter-flowering,  and  in  the  two 


2  70      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

hemispheres  at  once  ?  An  American  friend  of  mine,  who  is 
one  of  the  Secretaries  of  legation  here,  tells  me,  that  there  is 
but  one  exception  to  the  applause  in  his  country,  and  this  in 
a  penny  paper  ;  so  at  all  events  that  amount  of  drawback  is 
not  worth  twopence.  No  :  it  is  not  he  who  tells  me,— first 
tho'  he  was  to  give  me  the  good  news.  I  learn  it  from  my 
other  American  friend,  the  editor  of  the  "  Works"  who  is 
going  to  feast  the  transatlantic  half  of  my  vanity  with  a  col- 
lection of  the  praises  ;  some  of  which,  he  adds,  will  make 
my  "very  heart  leap  within  me."     Heaven  be  thanked  for  it. 

And  now  you  have  seen  a  certain  "  Tapiser's  Tale," 
which  accompanies  this  letter — oh,  but  my  vanity  must  not 
forget  to  add,— nay,  my  hope  of  solid  good  must  not  for- 
get to  add,— and  unspeakable  joys  hanging  thereon,  that 
the  manager  anticipates  a  "  long  run  "  for  the  play,  and  says 
also,  that  he  will,  "  carry  it  in  triumph  thro'  all  the  pro- 
vinces." Item,  I  have  reason  to  hope,  that  he  will  bring  out 
one,  perhaps  more,  of  certain  MS.  plays  which  I  have  by  me, 
and  for  which  I  never  expected  any  such  chance;  and 
furthermore  I  think  there  is  playable  stuff  in  them— and  so 
—and  then— why,  it  is  not  impossible,  verily,  that  I  may 
have  a  whole  golden  year  of  it  ;  alas  !  that  any  sighs  should 
mix  with  that  thought,  but  it  is  wholesome  that  they  should 
do  so,  to  prepare  me  for  disappointment.  There  would  even 
be  a  certain  sweet  in  them  then.  There  are  faces  that  in 
that  case  would  not  be  so  much  missed. 

But  to  return  to  the  Tapiser.  Here  is  a  bold  venture ; 
bold  to  send  to  anybody  and  anywhere,  but  boldest  of  all  to 
such  Chaucerophilists  as  live  at  Nice.  Luckily  their  love  is 
equal  to  their  knowledge  ;  so  extremes  will  meet  in  this  as 
in  other  cases  ;  and  positively  I  trust  to  fare  best  where 
under  less  loving  circumstances  1  might  have  had  least 
reason  to  expect  it.  Besides,  the  suljject  is  so  beautiful  in 
itself  that  a  devout  Chaucer  student  could  not  v\ell  take  all 
interest  out  of  it  with  the  sympathetic. 

So  I  shan't  fear  that  you  will  make  any  very  heavy  retalia- 
tions for  what  I  have  ventured  to  object  up  above  ;  especially 
as  in  reference  to  the  great  poet,  I  am  prepared  to  bow  to 
anv  speeches  of  shortcoming  that  may  be  objected,  saving 


LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS.     271 

something  in  behalf  of  the  wet  eyes  with  which  the  tale  was 
written  ....  It  has  appeared  in  Eraser's  Magazine,  an^ 
prospered. 

Dear  friends,  imagine  me  blessing  you  both  from  the 
place  which  I  occupy  in  your  house,  viy  house,  you  know,  as 
well  as  your  own.  What  if  I  should  be  able  to  see  it  some 
day,  with  eyes  not  of  spirit  only  ? 

Your  ever  loving  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Little  more  than  a  twelvemonth  elapsed  after  the 
above  words  had  been  written  ere  we  heard  of  Leigh 
Hunt's  death.  We  felt  that  one  of  the  most  salutary  and 
pleasurable  sources  of  influence  upon  our  life  was  with- 
drawn, and  a  sense  of  darkness  seemed  to  fall  around  us. 
Our  regret  at  his  loss  inspired  us  with  the  following  verse 
tribute  to  his  memory  : — 

Two  Sonnets 

On  hearing  of  Leigh  Himfs  Death. 

I. 

The  world  grows  empty  :  fadingly  and  fast 
The  dear  ones  and  the  great  ones  of  my  life 
Melt  forth,  and  leave  me  but  the  shadows  rife 
Of  those  who  blissful  made  my  peopled  past; 
Shadows  that  in  their  numerousness  cast 
A  sense  of  desolation  sharp  as  knife 
Upon  the  soul,  perplexing  it  with  strife 
Against  the  vacancy,  the  void,  the  vast 
Unfruitful  desert  which  the  earth  becomes 
To  one  who  loses  thus  the  cherished  friends 
Of  youth.     The  loss  of  each  beloved  sends 
An  aching  consciousness  of  want  that  dumbs 
The  voice  to  silence,— akin  to  the  dead  blank 
All  things  became,  when  down  the  sad  heart  sank. 


272        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS, 


II. 


And  yet  not  so  would  thou  thyself  liave  view'd 
Affliction  :  thy  true  poet  soul  knew  how 
The  sorest  thwartings  patiently  to  bow 

To  wisest  teacliings ;  that  they  still  renew'd 

In  thee  strong  hope,  firm  trust,  or  faith  imbued 
With  cheerful  spirit,— constant  to  avow 
The  "good  of  e'en  things  evil,"  and  allow 

All  things  to  pass  with  courage  unsubdued. 

Philosophy  like  thine  turns  to  .pure  gold 

Earth's  dross  ;  imprisonment  assumed  a  grac^ 

A  dignity,  as  borne  by  thee,  in  bold 
Defence  of  liberty  and  right ;  thy  face 

Reflected  thy  heart's  sun  'mid  sickness,  pain. 

And  grief;  nay,  loss  itself  thou  mad'st  a  gain. 


a<i 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS. 

The  leading  characteristic  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  nature 
was  earnestness.  He  was  earnest  in  his  abhorrence  of 
all  things  mean  and  interested ;  earnest  in  his  noble 
indignation  at  wrong  and  oppression;  earnest  in  tlie 
very  wit  with  which  he  vented  his  sense  of  detestation  for 
evil-doing.  He  was  deeply  earnest  in  all  serious  things ; 
and  very  much  in  earnest  when  dealing  with  less 
apparently  important  matters,  which  he  thought  needed 
the  scourge  of  a  sarcasm.  Any  one  who  could  doubt  the 
earnestness  of  Jerrold  should  have  seen  him  when  a 
child  was  the  topic ;  the  fire  of  his  eye,  the  quiver  of 
his  lip,  bore  witness  to  the  truth  of  the  phrase  he  him- 
self uses  in  his  charming  drama  of  "  The  Schoolfellows," 
showing  that  to  him  indeed  "children  are  sacred  things." 
We  once  received  a  letter  from  him  expressing  in 
pungent  terms  his  bitter  disgust  at  an  existing  evil,  and 
concluding  with  a  light  turn  serving  to  throw  off  the 
load  that  oppresses  him  : — 

Putney,  Oct.  21st,  1849. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — The  wisdom  of  the  law  is 
about  to  preach  from  the  scaffold  on  the  sacredness  of  life ; 
and,  to  illustrate  its  sanctity,  will  straightway  strangle  a 
woman  as  soon  as  she  have  strength  renewed  from  child- 
birth.    I  would  fain  believe,  despite  the  threat  01  Sir  G 

G to  hang  this  wretched  creature  as  soon  as  restorations 

shall  have  had  their  benign  effect,  that  the  Government  only 
need  pressure  irom  without  to  commute  the  sentence.    A 

T 


'274        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

petition — a  woman's  petition — is  in  course  of  signature.  You 
are,  I  believe,  not  a  reader  of  that  mixture  of  good  and  evil, 
a  newspaper  ;  hence,  may  be  unaware  of  the  fact.  I  need 
not  ask  you,  Will  you  sign  it.?  The  document  lies  at 
Gilpin's— a  noble  fellow— the  bookseller,  Bishopsgate. 
Should  her  Majesty  run  down  the  list  of  names,  I  think  her 
bettered  taste  in  Shakespeare  would  dwell  complacently  on 
the  name  of  Mary  Covvden  Clarke. 

I  don't  know  when  they  pay  dividends  at  the  Bank,  but  if 
this  be  the  time,  you  can  in  the  same  journey  fill  your  pocket, 
and  lighten  your  conscience.     Regards  to  Clarke. 

Yours  ever  tiaily, 

D.  Jerrold. 

Jerrold  took  a  hearty  interest  in  an  attempted  reform, 
m  a  matter  which  afifected  him  as  a  literary  man,  a 
reform  since  accompUshed— the  Repeal  of  all  Taxes  on 
Knowledge.  He  had  been  invited  to  take  the  chair  at  a 
meeting  for  the  consideration  of  the  subject;  and  he  sent 
the  following  witty  letter  to  be  read  instead  of  a  speech 
from  him,  being  unable  to  attend  : — 

West  Lodge  Putney,  Lower  Common, 
Feb.  25th,  1852. 

Dear  Sir, — Disabled  by  an  accident  from  personal  at- 
tendance at  your  meeting,  I  trust  I  may  herein  be  permitted 
to  express  my  heartiest  sympathy  with  its  great  social 
purpose.  That  the  fabric,  paper,  newspapers,  and  advertise- 
ments should  be  taxed  by  any  Government  possessing 
paternal  yearnings  for  the  education  of  a  people,  defies  the 
argument  of  reason.  Why  not,  to  help  the  lame  and  to  aid 
the  short-sighted,  lay  a  tax  upon  crutches,  and  enforce  a  duty 
upon  spectacles.? 

I  am  not  aware  of  the  number  of  professional  writers— of 
men  who  live  from  pen  to  mouth — flourishing  this  day  in 
merry  England  ;  but  it  appears  to  me,  and  the  notion,  to  a 
new  Chancellor  of  the  Exchecpier  (I  am  happy  to  say  one  of 
my  order — of  the     oosequill,  not  of  the  heron's  plume)  may 


DOUGLAS JERROLD  AJSD  HIS  LETTERS.  275 

have  some  significance  ;  why  not  enforce  a  duty  upon  the 
very  source  and  origin  of  letters  ?  Why  not  have  a  hterary 
poll-tax,  a  duty  upon  books  and  "  articles  "  in  their  rawest 
materials  ?  Let  every  author  pay  for  his  licence,  poetic  or 
otherwise.  This  would  give  a  wholeness  of  contradiction  to 
a  professed  desire  for  knowledge,  when  existing  with  taxation 
of  its  material  elements.  Thus,  the  exciseman,  beginning 
with  authors'  brains,  would  descend  through  rags,  and  duly 
end  with  paper.  This  tax  upon  news  is  captious  and  arbi- 
trary ;  arbitrary,  I  say,  for  what  is  not  news  ?  A  noble  lord 
makes  a  speech  :  his  rays  of  intelligence  compressed  like 
Milton's  fallen  angels,  are  in  a  few  black  rows  of  this  type  ; 
and  this  is  news.  And  is  not  a  new  book  "  news "  1  Let 
Ovid  first  tell  us  how  Midas  first  laid  himself  down,  and — 
private  and  confidential — whispered  to  the  reeds,  "  I  have 
ears  ;"  and  is  not  that  news  ?  Do  many  noble  lords,  even  in 
Parliament,  tell  us  anything  newer? 

The  tax  on  advertisements  is- it  is  patent — a  tax  even 
upon  the  industry  of  the  very  hardest  workers.  Why  should 
the  Exchequer  waylay  the  errand  boy  and  oppress  the  maid- 
of-all-work  ?  Wherefore  should  Mary  Ann  be  made  to 
disburse  her  eighteenpence  at  the  Stamp  Office  ere  she 
can  show  her  face  in  print,  wanting  a  place,  although  to 
the  discomfiture  ot  those  first-created  Chancellors  of  the 
Exchequer — the  spiders  ? 

In  conclusion,  I  must  congratulate  the  meeting  on  the 
advent  of  the  new  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  The  Right 
Honourable  Benjamin  D'lsraeli  is  the  successful  man  ot 
letters.  He  has  ink  in  his  veins.  The  goosequill — let  gold 
and  silver-sticks  twinkle  as  they  may— leads  the  House  ot 
Commons.  Thus,  I  feel  confident  that  the  literary  instincts 
of  the  right  honourable  gentleman  will  give  new  animation 
to  the  coldness  of  statesmanship,  apt  to  be  numbed  by  tight- 
ness of  red-tape.  We  are,  I  know,  early  taught  to  despair  of 
the  right  honourable  gentleman,  because  he  is  allowed  to  Ije 
that  smallest  of  things,  "a  wit."  Is  arithmetic  for  ever  to 
be  the  monopoly  of  substantial  respectable  dulness?  Must 
it  be  that  a  Chancellor  ot  the  Exchequer,  like  Portids  por- 
trait, is  only  to  be  found  in  lead  ? 

T   2 


2  75        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

No,  sir,  I  have  a  cheerful  feith  that  our  new  fiscal  minister 
will,  to  the  confusion  of  obese  dulncss,  show  his  potency  over 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.  The  Exchequer  L.S.D.  that 
have  hitherto  been  as  the  three  Wtches — the  weird  sisters — 
stopping  us,  A'herever  we  turned,  the  right  honourable  gentle- 
man will  at  the  least  transform  into  the  three  Graces,  making 
them  in  all  their  salutations,  at  home  and  abroad,  welcome 
and  agreeable.  But  with  respect  to  the  L.S.D.  upon  know- 
ledge, he  will,  I  feel  confident,  cause  at  once  the  weird  sister- 
hood to  melt  into  thin  air;  and  thus— let  the  meeting  take 
heart  with  the  assurance — thus  will  fade  and  be  dissolved 
the  Penny  News'-tax— the  en-and-bcy  and  maid-of-all-work's 
tax — and  the  tax  on  that  innocent  white  thing,  the  tax  on 
paper.     With  this  hope  I  remain,  yours  faithfully, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 
J.  Alfred  Novello,  Esq., 
Sub-Treasurer  ot  the  Association  for  the  Repeal 
of  all  Taxes  upon  Knowledge. 

Another  letter,  excusing  his  attendance  at  a  meeting, 
serves  to  show  his  lively  interest  in  the  Whittington 
Club,  of  which  he  was  the  Founder  and  President ;  and 
also  demonstrates  his  sincere  desire  for  the  establishment 
of  recognized  social  equality  for  women  with  men.  This 
is  the  letter  : — 

To  the  Secretary  of  the  Whittington  Club. 

West  Lodge,  Putney  Lower  Common,  June  i8th. 
Dear  Sir, — It  is.  to  me  a  very  great  disappointment  that 
I  am  denied  the  pleasure  of  being  with  you  on  the  interest- 
ing occasion  of  to-day  ;  when  the  club  starts  into  vigorous 
existence,  entering  upon — I  hope  and  believe— a  long  life  of 
usefulness  to  present  and  succeeding  generations.  I  have 
for  some  days  been  labouring  with  a  violent  cold,  which,  at 
the  last  hour,  leases  me  no  hope  of  being  with  you.  This  to 
me  is  especially  discomfiting  upon  the  high  occasion  the 
council  meet  to  celebrate  ;  for  we  should  have  but  very  little 
to  boast  ol  by  the  establishment  of  the  club,  had  we  only 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  277 

founded  a  sort  of  monster  chop-house  ;  no  great  addition 
this  to  London,  where  chop-houses  are  certainly  not  among 
the  rarer  monuments  ot  British  civihzation. 

We  therefore  recognize  a  higher  purpose  in  the  Whit- 
tington  Club  ;  namely,  a  triumphant  refutation  of  a  very  old, 
respectable,  but  no  less  foolish  fallacy— for  folly  and  respect- 
ability are  somehow  sometimes  found  together — that  female 
society  in  such  an  institution  is  incompatible  with  female 
domestic  dignity.  Hitherto,  Englishmen  have  made  their 
club-houses  as  Mahomet  made  his  Paradise — a  place  where 
women  are  not  admitted  on  any  pretext  whatever.  Thus 
considered,  the  Englishman  may  be  a  very  good  Christian 
sort  of  a  person  at  home,  and  at  the  same  time  little  better 
than  a  Turk  at  his  club. 

It  is  for  us,  however,  to  change  this.  And  as  we  are  the 
first  to  assert  what  may  be  considered  a  great  social  principle, 
so  it  is  most  onerous  upon  us  that  it  should  be  watched  with 
the  most  jealous  suspicion  of  whatever  might  in  the  most 
remote  degree  tend  to  retard  its  very  fullest  success.  Again 
lamenting  the  cause  that  denies  me  the  gratification  of  being 
with  you  on  so  auspicious  a  day, 

Believe  me,  yours  faithfully, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

That  Jerrold  felt  the  misinterpretation  with  which  his 
satirical  hits  at  women's  foibles  had  been  sometimes 
received  is  evident  in  the  following  letter,  which  he  wrote 
to  thank  our  sister,  Sabilla  Novello,  who  liad  knitted  him 
a  purse : — 

Putney  Green,  June  9th. 
Dear  Miss  Novello,— I  thank  you  very  sincerely  for 
your  present,  though  I  cannot  but  fear  its  fatal  effect  upon 
my  limited  fortunes,  for  it  is  so  very  handsome  that  whenevet 
I  produce  it  I  feel  that  1  have  thousands  a  year,  and,  as  in 
duty  bound,  am  inclined  to  pay  accordingly.  I  shall  go 
about,  to  the  astonishment  ol  all  oviinxbii  men,  insisting  upon 
paying   sovereigns   for   sixpences.     Happily,   however,  this 


2  78        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

amiable  insanity  will  cure  itself  (or  I  may  always  bear  my 
wife  with  me  as  a  keeper). 

About  this  comedy.  I  am  writing  it  under  the  most  sig- 
nificant warnings.  As  the  Eastern  kinfy^name  unknown, 
to  me  at  least — kept  a  crier  to  warn  him  that  he  was  but 
mortal  and  must  die,  and  so  to  behave  himself  as  decently 
as  it  is  possible  for  any  poor  king  to  do,  so  do  I  keep  a  flork 
of  eloquent  geese  that  continually,  within  ear-shot,  cackle  of 
the  British  public.  Hence,  I  trust  to  defeat  the  birds  of  the 
Haymarket  by  the  birds  of  Putney. 

But  in  this  comedy  I  do  contemplate  such  a  heroine,  as  a 
set-off  to  the  many  sins  imputed  to  me  as  committed  against 
woman,  whom  I  have  always  considered  to  be  an  admirable 
idea  imperfectly  worked  out.  Poor  soul !  she  can't  help 
that.  Well,  this  heroine  shall  be  woven  of  moon-beams — a 
perfect  angel,  with  one  wing  cut  to  keep  her  among  us.  She 
shall  be  all  devotion.  She  shall  hand  over  her  lover  (never 
mind  his  heart,  poor  wretch  !)  to  her  grandmother,  who  she 
suspects  is  very  fond  of  him,  and  then,  disguising  herself  as 
a  youth,  she  shall  enter  the  British  navy,  and  return  in  six 
years,  say,  with  epaulets  on  her  shoulders,  and  her  name  in 
the  Navy  List,  rated  Post- Captain.  You  will  perceive  that 
I  have  Madame  Celeste  in  my  eye — am  measuring  her  for 
the  uniform.  And  young  ladies  will  sit  in  the  boxes,  and 
with  tearful  eyes,  and  noses  like  rose-buds,  say,  "  What  mag- 
nanimity !"  And  when  this  great  work  is  done — this  monu- 
ment of  the  very  best  gilt  gingerbread  to  woman  set  up  on 
the  Haymarket  stage — jou  shall,  if  you  will,  go  and  see  it, 
and  make  one  to  cry  for  the  "  Author,"  rewarding  him  with 
a  crown  of  tin-foil,  and  a  shower  of  sugar-plums. 

In  lively  hope  of  that  ecstatic  moment,  I  remain,  yours  truly, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

The  following  is  one  of  his  playful  notes,  also 
addressed  to  Sabilla  Novello  : — 

Putney  Common,  June  i8th. 
My  dear  Mis.s  Novello, — I    ought  ere  this  to  have 
thanked  you  for  the  prospectus.     I  shall  certainly  avail  my- 


DOUGLAS  lERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  279 

self  of  its  proffered   advantages,  and,   on  the  close  of  the 
vacation,  send  my  girl. 

I  presume,  ere  that  time,  you  will  have  returned  to  the 
purer  shades  of  Baysvvater  from  all  the  pleasant  iniquities  of 
Paris.  I  am  unexpectedly  deprived  of  every  chance  of 
leaving  home,  at  least  for  some  time,  if  at  all  this  season,  by 
a  literary  projection  that  I  thought  would  have  been  deferred 
until  late  in  the  autumn  ;  otherwise,  how  willingly  would  I 
black  the  seams  and  elbows  of  my  coat  with  my  ink,  and 
elevating  my  quill  into  a  cure-dent,  hie  me  to  the  "  Trois- 
Freres" !  But  this  must  not  be  for  God  knows  when — or  the 
Devil  (my  devil,  mind)  better.  I  am  indeed  "  nailed  to  the 
dead  wood,"  as  Lamb  says ;  or  rather,  in  this  glorious 
weather,  I  feel  as  somehow  a  butterfly,  or,  since  I  am  getting 
fat,  a  June  fly,  impaled  on  iron  pin,  or  pen,  must  feel  fixed  to 
one  place,  with  every  virtuous  wish  to  go  anywhere  and 
everywhere,  wiih  anybody  and  almost  every  body.  I  am 
not  an  independent  spinster,  but — "  I  won't  weep."  Not  one 
unmanly  tear  shall  stain  this  sheet. 

With  desperate  calmness  I  subscribe  myself,  yours  faith- 
fully, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

The  next  enclosed  tickets  of  admission  to  the  perform- 
ance of  Ben  Jonson's  comedy  of  **  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour,"  at  Miss  Kelly's  little  theatre  in  Dean  Street, 
Soho,  when  Jerrold  played  Master  Stephen  ;  Charles 
Dickens,  Bobadil ;  Mark  Lemon,  Brainworm ;  John 
Forster,  Kitely;  and  John  Leech,  Master  Mathew.  It  was 
the  first  attempt  of  that  subsequently  famous  amateur  com- 
pany, and  a  glorious  beginning  it  was.  Douglas  Jerrold's 
Master  Stephen, — that  strong  mongrel  likeness  of  Abra- 
ham Slender  and  Andrew  Aguecheek, — was  excellently 
facetious  in  the  conceited  coxcombry  of  the  part,  and  in  its 
occasional  smart  retoits  was  only  too  good — that  is  to  say, 
he  showed  just  too  keen  a  consciousness  of  the  aptness 
and  point  in  reply  for  the  blunt  perceptions  of  such  an 


28o        RECOLLECTJOi^S  OF  WRITERS. 

oaf  as  Master  Stephen.  For  instance,  when  Bobadil, 
disarmed  and  beaten  by  Downvvright,  exclaims,  "  Sure  I 
was  struck  with  a  planet  thence,"  and  Stephen  rejoins 
"  No,  you  were  struck  with  a  stick',''  the  words  were 
uttered  with  that  peculiar  Jerroidian  twinkle  of  the  eye 
and  humorously  dry  inflection  of  the  voice  that  accom- 
panied the  speaker's  own  repartees,  and  made  one  behold 
Douglas  Jerrold  himself  beneath  the  garb  of  Master 
Stephen. 

Thursday,  Sept.,  1845. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — In  haste  I  send  you  accom- 
panying. ''  Call  no  man  happy  till  he  is  dead,"  says  the 
sage.  Never  give  thanks  for  tickets  for  an  amateur  play  till 
the  show  is  over.  You  don't  know  what  may  be  in  store  for 
you — and  for  its! 

Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play — (or  try  to  play). 

Yours  faithfully, 

D.  Jerrold. 

Jerrold  would  perceive  the  germ  of  a  retort  before  you 
had  well  begun  to  form  your  sentence,  and  would  bring 
it  forth  in  full  blossom  the  instant  you  had  done  speaking. 
He  had  a  way  of  looking  straight  in  the  face  of  one  to 
whom  he  dealt  a  repartee,  and  with  an  expression  of  eye 
that  seemed  to  ask  appreciation  of  the  point  of  the  thing 
he  was  going  to  say,  thus  depriving  it  of  personality  or 
ill-nature.  It  was  as  if  he  called  upon  its  object  to  enjoy 
it  with  him,  rather  than  to  resent  its  sharpness.  There 
was  a  peculiar  compression  with  a  sudden  curve  or  lift 
up  of  the  lip  that  showed  his  own  sense  of  the  fun  of 
the  thing  he  was  uttering,  while  his  glance  met  his 
interlocutor's  with   a  firm,  unflinching   roguery  and  an 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  281 

unfaltering  drollery  of  tone  that  had  none  of  the  sidelong, 
furtive  look  and  irritating  tone  of  usual  utterers  of  mere 
rough  retorts.  When  an  acquaintance  came  up  to  him 
and  said,  "  Why,  Jerrold,  I  hear  you  said  my  nose  was 
like  the  ace  of  clubs  !  "  Jerrold  returned,  "  No,  I  didn't ; 
but  now  I  look  at  it,  I  see  it  is  very  like."  The  question 
of  the  actual  resemblance  was  for  less  present  to  his 
mind  than  the  neatness  of  his  own  turn  upon  the  com- 
plainant. So  with  a  repartee,  which  he  repeated  to  us 
himself  as  having  made  on  a  particular  occasion, 
evidently  relishing  the  comic  audacity,  and  without 
intending  a  spark  of  insolence.  When  the  publisher  of 
Bentley's  Miscellaiiy  said  to  Jerrold,  "  I  had  some  doubts 
about  the  name  I  should  give  the  magazine  ;  1  ttiought 
at  one  time  of  calling  it  ''J'he  Wits'  Miscellany;'" 
"  Well,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "  but  you  needn't  have  gone 
to  the  other  extremity."  Knowing  Jerrold,  we  feel  that 
had  the  speaker  been  the  most  brilliant  genius  that  ever 
lived  the  retort  would  have  been  the  same,  the  patness 
having  once  entered  his  brain.  He  would  drop  his 
witticisms  like  strewed  flowers,  as  he  went  on  talking, 
lavishly,  as  one  who  possessed  countless  store ;  yet 
always  with  that  glance  of  enjoyment  in  them  himself, 
and  of  challenging  your  sympathetic  relish  for  them  in 
return  which  acknowledges  the  truth  of  the  Shakespearian 
axiom,  "  A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear  of  him  that 
hears  it."  He  illustrated  his  conversation,  as  it  were,  by 
these  wit-blossoms  cast  in  by  the  way.  Speaking  of  a 
savage  biting  critic,  Jerrold  said,  "  Oh  yes,  he'll  review 
the  book,  as  an  east  wind  reviews  an  apple-tree."  Of  an 
actress  who  thought  inordinately  well  of  herself,  he  said, 
"She's  a  perfect  whitlow  of  vanity."  And  of  a  young 
writer  who  brought  out  his  first  raw  specimen  of  author- 


282        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

ship,  Jerrold  said,  "  He  is  like  a  man  taking  down  his 
shop-shutters  before  he  has  any  goods  to  sell." 

One  of  the  pleasant  occasions  on  which  we  met 
Douglas  Jerrold  was  at  a  house  where  a  donee  was  going 
on  as  we  entered  the  room ;  and  in  a  corner,  near  to 
the  dancers,  we  saw  him  sitting,  and  made  our  way  to  his 
side.  With  her  back  towards  where  he  and  we  sat  was 
a  pretty  Httle  shapely  figure  in  pink  silk,  standing  ready 
to  begin  the  next  portion  of  the  quadrille;  and  he 
pointed  towards  it,  saying, — 

"  Mrs.  Jerrold  is  here  to-night ;  there  she  is, 

"  Not  like  the  figure  of  a  grandmamma,'^  was  the 
laughing  reply,  for  we  had  heard  that  a  grandchild  had 
just  been  born  to  them,  and  we  thought  of  what  we  had 
once  heard  recounted  ol  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her, — 
he,  an  impetuous  lad  of  eighteen,  just  returned  from 
sea, — and  she,  a  girl  with  so  neat  and  graceful  a  figure 
that  as  he  beheld  it  he  exclaimed,  "  That  girl  shall  be  my 
wife  ! "  So  mere  a  stripling  was  he  when  he  married 
that  he  told  us  the  clergyman  who  joined  their  hands, 
seeing  the  almost  boyishly  youthful  look  of  the  bride- 
groom, addressed  a  few  kind  and  fatherly  words  to  him 
after  the  ceremony,  bidding  him  remember  the  serious 
duty  he  had  undertaken  of  providing  for  a  young  girl's 
welfare,  and  that  he  must  remember  her  future  happiness 
in  life  depended  henceforth  mainly  upon  him  as  her 
husband. 

It  was  on  that  same  evening  that  we  are  speaking  of 
that  Jerrold  said,  "  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  a  young 
poetess  only  nineteen  years  of  age ;"  and  took  us  into 
the  next  room,  where  was  a  young  lady  robed  in  simple 
white  muslin,  with  light  brown  hair  smoothly  coiled 
round  a   well-formed  head,  and   an   air   of  grave   and 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  283 

queenly  quiet  dignity.  She  sat  down  to  the  piano  at  re- 
quest, and  accompanied  herself  in  Tennyson's  song  of 
"Mariana  in  the  Aloated  Grange,"  singing  with  much 
expression  and  with  a  deep  contralto  voice.  It  Avas  before 
she  was  known  to  the  world  as  a  prose  writer,  before  she 
had  put  forth  to  the  world  her  first  novel  of  "The 
Ogilvies." 

Another  introduction  to  a  distinguished  A\Titer  we  owe 
to  Douglas  Jerrold.  We  had  been  to  call  upon  him  at 
his  pretty  residence,  West  Lodge,  Putney  Common,  when 
we  found  him  just  going  to  drive  himself  into  town  in  a 
little  pony  carriage  he  at  that  time  kept.  He  made  us 
accompany  him  ;  and  as  we  passed  through  a  turnpike  on 
the  road  back  to  London  we  saw  a  gentleman  approach- 
ing on  horseback.  Jerrold  and  he  saluted  each  other, 
and  then  we  were  presented  to  him,  and  heard  his  name, 
— William  Makepeace  Thackeray.  ]\Iany  years  after  that 
his  daughter,  paying  her  first  visit  to  Italy,  was  brought 
by  a  friend  to  see  us  in  Genoa,  and  charmed  us  by  the 
sweetness  and  unaffected  simplicity  of  her  manners. 

That  cottage  at  Putney — its  garden,  its  mulberry- tree, 
its  grass-plot,  its  cheery  library,  with  Douglas  Jerrold  as  the 
chief  figure  in  the  scene — remains  as  a  bright  and  most 
pleasant  picture  in  our  memory.  He  had  an  almost 
reverential  fondness  for  books — books  themselves — and 
said  he  could  not  bear  to  treat  them,  or  to  see  them 
treated,  with  disrespect.  He  told  us  it  gave  him  pain  to 
see  them  turned  on  their  faces,  stretched  open,  or  dog's- 
eared,  or  carelessly  flung  down,  or  in  any  way  misused. 
He  told  us  this  holding  a  volume  in  his  hand  with  a 
caressing  gesture,  as  though  he  tendered  it  affectionately 
and  gratefully  for  the  pleasure  it  had  given  him.  He 
spoke  like  one  who  had  known  what  it  was  in  former 


284       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

years  to  buy  a  book  when  its  purchase  involved  a 
sacrif-ce  of  some  other  object,  from  a  not  over-stored 
purse.  We  have  often  noticed  this  in  book-lovers  who, 
like  ourselves,  have  had  volimies  come  into  cherished 
possession  at  times  when  their  glad  owners  were  not  rich 
enough  to  easily  afford  book-purchases.  Charles  Lamb 
had  this  tenderness  for  books ;  caring  nothing  for  their 
gaudy  clothing,  but  hugging  a  rare  folio  all  the  nearer  to 
his  heart  for  its  worn  edges  and  shabby  binding. 
Another  peculiarity  with  regard  to  his  books  Jerrold  had, 
which  was,  that  he  liked  to  have  them  thoroughly  within 
reach  ;  so  that,  as  he  pointed  out  to  us,  he  had  the  book- 
shelves which  ran  round  his  library  walls  at  Putney 
carried  no  higher  than  would  permit  of  easy  access  to  the 
top  shelf.  Above  this  there  was  sufficient  space  for  pic- 
tures, engravings,  &c.,  and  we  had  the  pleasure  of  con- 
tributing two  ornaments  to  this  space,  in  the  form  of  a 
bust  of  Shakespeare  and  one  of  Milton,  on  brackets  after 
a  design  by  Michael  Angelo,  which  brought  from  dear 
Douglas  Jerrold  the  following  pleasant  letter  : — 

Putney,  August  oth. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  know  not  how  best  to  thank 
you  for  the  surprise  you  and  Clarke  put  upon  me  this  morn- 
in-j.  These  casts,  while  demanding  reverence  for  what  they 
represent  and  typify,  will  always  associate  with  the  feeling 
that  of  sincerest  regard  and  friendship  for  the  donors.  These 
things  will  be  very  precious  to  me,  and,  I  hope,  for  many 
a  long  winter's  night  awaken  frequent  recollections  of  the 
thoughtful  kindness  that  has  made  them  my  household  gods. 
I  well  remembered  the  brackets,  but  had  forgotten  the 
master.     But  this  is  the  gratitude  of  the  world. 

I  hope  that  my  girl  will  be  able  to  be  got  ready  for  this 
quarter ;  but  in  a  matter  that  involves  the  making,  trimming, 
and  fitting  of  gowns  or  frocks,  it  is  not  for  one  of  my  be- 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  285 

nighted  sex  to  offer  a  decided  opinion.  I  can  only  timidly 
venture  to  believe  that  the  >  oung  lady's  trunk  will  be  ready 
in  a  few  days. 

Pandora's  box  was  only  a  box  of  woman's  clothes — wdth  a 
Sunday  gown  at  the  bottom. — Yours  truly, 

Douglas  Jerrold, 

It  was  while  Jerrold  was  living  at  West  Lodge  that  he 
not  only  founded  the  Whittington  Club,  but  also  the 
Museum  Club,  which,  when  he  asked  us  to  belong  to  it, 
he  said  he  wanted  to  make  a  mart  where  literary  men 
could  congregate,  become  acquainted,  form  friendships, 
discuss  their  rights  and  privileges,  be  known  to  assemble, 
and  therefore  could  be  readily  found  when  required. 
"  I  want  to  make  it,"  he  said,  "  a  house  of  call  for  writers." 
It  was  at  Putney  that  Jerrold  told  us  the  amusing  (and 
very  characteristic)  story  of  himself  when  he  was  at  sea  as 
a  youngster.  He  and  some  officers  on  board  had  sent 
ashore  a  few  men  to  fetch  a  supply  of  fresh  fruit  and 
vegetables,  at  some  port  into  which  the  ship  had  put 
when  she  was  on  one  of  her  voyages,  and,  on  the  boat's 
return  alongside,  it  was  found  that  one  of  the  men  had 
decamped.  The  ship  sailed  without  the  runaw^ay,  and 
on  her  return  to  England  Jerrold  quitted  the  service. 
Some  years  after  he  was  walking  in  the  Strand,  and  saw 
a  man  with  a  baker's  basket  on  his  shoulder  staring  in  at 
a  shop  window,  whom  Jerrold  immediately  recognized  as 
the  deserter  from  the  ship.  He  went  up  to  the  man, 
slapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  exclaimed,  "  I  say  ! 
what  a  long  time  you've  been  gone  for  those  cherries  !" 
The  dramatic  surprise  of  the  exclamation  was  quite  in 
Jerrold's  way. 

There  was  a  delightful  irony— an  implied  compliment 
beneath  his  sharp  things — that  made  them   exquisitely 


286        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS, 

agreeable.  They  were  said  with  a  spice  of  slyness,  yet 
with  a  fully  evident  confidence  that  they  would  not  be 
misunderstood  by  the  person  who  was  their  object. 
When  we  went  over  to  West  Lodge  after  the  opening  of 
the  Whittington  Club,  to  take  him  a  cushion  for  his 
library  arm-chair,  with  the  head  of  a  cat  that  might 
have  been  Dick  Whittington's  own  embroidered  upon  it, 
Jerrold  turned  to  his  wife,  saying,  "  My  dear,  they  have 
brought  me  your  portrait."  And  the  smile  that  met  his 
showed  how  well  the  woman  who  had  been  his  devoted 
partner  from  youth  comprehended  the  delicate  force  of 
the  ironical  jest  whicli  he  could  afford  to  address  to  her. 
In  a  similar  spirit  of  pleasantry  he  wrote  in  the  presenta- 
tion copy  of"  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures"  which  he 
gave  to  M.  C.  C.  :  "  Presented  with  great  timidity,  but 
equal  regard,  to  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke." 

Ill  1848  was  brought  out  a  small  pocket  volume 
entitled  "Shakespeare  Proverbs;  or.  The  Wise  Saws  of 
our  Wisest  Poet  collected  into  a  Modern  Instance  ;"  and 
its  dedication  ran  thus  :  "  To  Douglas  Jerrold,  the  first 
wit  of  the  present  age,  these  Proverbs  of  Shakespeare, 
the  first  wit  of  any  age,  are  inscribed  by  Mary  Cowden 
Clarke,  of  a  certain  age,  and  no  wit  at  all."  This  brought 
the  following  playful  letter  of  acknowledgment  : — 

West  Lodge,  Putney,  December  31st. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — You  must  imagine  that  all  this 
time  I  have  been  endeavouring  to  regain  my  breath,  taken 
away  by  your  too  partial  dedication.  To  find  my  name  on 
such  a  page,  and  in  such  company,  I  feel  like  a  sacrilegious 
knave  who  has  broken  into  a  church  and  is  making  off  Avith 
the  Communion  plate.  One  thing  is  plain,  Shakespeare  had 
great  obhgations  to  you^  but  this  last  inconsiderate  act  has 
certainly  cancelled  them  all.  I  feel  that  I  ought  never  to 
speak  or  write  again,  but  go  down  to  the  grave   with   my 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  287 

thumb  in  my  mouth.  It  is  the  only  chance  I  have  of  not 
betraying  my  pauper-hke  unworthiness  to  the  association 
with  which  you  have— to  the  utter  wreck  of  your  discretion- 
astounded  mc. 

The  old  year  is  dying  with  the  dying  fire  whereat  this  is 
penned.  That,  however,  you  may  have  many,  many  happy 
years  (though  they  can  only  add  to  the  remorse  for  what  you 
have  done)  is  the  sincere  wish  of  yours  truly  (if  you  will  not 
show  the  word  to  Clarke,  I  will  say  affectionately), 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

When  the  "  Concordance  to  Shakespeare"  made  its 
complete  appearance,  it  was  thus  greeted  : — 

December  5th,  West  Lodge,  Putney  Common. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  congratulate  you  and  the 
world  on  the  completion  ot  your  monumental  work.  May  it 
make  for  you  a  huge  bed  of  mixed  laurels  and  bank-notes. 

On  your  first  arrival  in  Paradise  you  must  expect  a  kiss 
from  Shakespeare, — even  though  your  husband  should 
happen  to  be  there. 

That  you  and  he.  however,  may  long  make  for  yourselves 
a  Paradise  here,  is  the  sincere  wish  of — Yours  truly, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

P.S.  I  will  certainly  Jiitch  in  a  notice  of  the  work  in 
Punch,  making  it  a  special  case,  as  we  eschew  Reviews. 

The  kind  promise  contained  in  the  postscript  to  the 
above  letter  was  fulfilled  in  the  most  graceful  and  in- 
genious manner  by  its  writer,  in  a  brilliant  article 
he  wrote  some  time  after  on  "  The  Shakespeare  Night  " 
at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  that  took  place  the  7th 
December,  1847.  After  describing  in  glowing  terms  the 
festive  look  of  the  overflowing  house,  Jerrold  proceeded  : 
— "  At  a  few  minutes  to  seven,  and  quite  unexpectedly, 
William  Shakespeare,  with  his  wife,  the  late  Anne 
Hathaway,  drove  up  to  the  private  box  door,  drawn  by 


2S8        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Pegasus,  for  that  night  only  appearing  in  harness.  .  .  . 
Shakespeare  was  received  —  and  afterwards  hghted  to  his 
box — by  his  editors,  Charles  Knight  and  Payne  Collier, 
upon  both  of  whom  the  poet  smiled  benignly ;  and  say- 
ing some  pleasant,  commendable  words  to  each,  received 
from  their  hands  their  two  editions  of  his  immortality. 
And  then  from  a  corner  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  timidly, 
and  all  one  big  blush,  presented  a  play-bill,  with  some 
Hesperian  fruit  (of  her  own  gathering).  Shakespeare 
knew  the  lady  at  once ;  and,  taking  her  two  hands,  and 
looking  a  Shakespearian  look  in  her  now  pale  fi.ice,  said, 
in  tones  of  unimaginable  depth  and  sweetness,  '  But 
where  is  your  book,  Mistress  Mary  Clarke?  Where  is 
your  Concordance  V  And,  again,  pressing  her  hands, 
with  a  smile  of  sun-lighted  Apollo,  said,  '  I  pray  you  let 
me  take  it  home  with  me.'  And  Mrs.  Clarke,  having  no 
words,  dropped  the  profoundest  '  Yes,'  with  knocking 
knees.  'A  very  fair  and  cordial  gentlewoman,  Anne,' 
said  Shakespeare,  aside  to  his  wife  ;  but  Anne  merely 
observed  that  '  It  was  just  like  him  ;  he  was  always  seeing 
something  fair  where  nobody  else  saw  anything.  The 
woman  -odds  her  life  !  —was  well  enough.'  And  Shake- 
speare smiled  again  !" 

That  sentence,  of  Shakespeare's  "  always  seeing  some- 
thing fair  where  nobody  else  saw  anything,"  is  a  profound 
piece  of  truth  as  well  as  wit ;  while  the  smile  with  which 
the  poet  is  made  to  listen  to  his  wife's  intolerance  of 
hearing  her  husband  praise  another  woman  is  perfectly 
Jerroldian  in  its  sly  hit  at  a  supposed  prevalent  feminine 
foible. 

Jerrold  had  a  keen  sense  of  personal  beauty  in  women. 
In  the  very  article  above  quoted  he  uses  expressions  in 
speaking  of  Shakespeare's  admiration  for  Mrs.  Nesbitt's 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  2S9 

charms  that  strikingly  evidence  this  point :  — "  Then 
taking  a  deep  look — a  very  draught  of  a  look — at  Mrs. 
Nesbitt  as  Katherine,  the  poet  turned  to  his  wife  and 
said,  drawing  his  breath,  '  What  a  peach  of  a  woman  / ' 
Anne  said  nothing."  Here,  too,  again,  he  concludes 
with  the  Jerroldian  sarcastic  touch.  In  confirmation  of 
the  powerful  impression  that  loveliness  in  women  had 
upon  his  imagination,  we  remember  his  telling  us  with 
enthusiasm  of  the  merits  in  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton's  poem 
"  The  Child  of  the  Islands,"  dilating  on  some  of  its  best 
passages,  and,  adding  that  he  had  lately  met  her  and 
spoken  to  her  face  to  face ;  he  concluded  with  the  words 
"  She  herself  is  beautiful — even  dangerously  beautiful  ! " 

Four  letters  we  received  from  him  were  in  consequence 
of  an  application  that  is  stated  in  the  first  of  them.  The 
second  mentions  the  wish  of  "  the  correspondent ; "  and 
this  was  that  the  letter  in  which  the  desired  "  two  lines  " 
were  written  should  be  sent  without  envelope,  and  on  a 
sheet  of  paper  that  would  bear  the  post-fnark,  as  an 
evidence  of  genuineness.  The  third  accepts  the  offer  to 
share  the  promised  "two  ounces  of  Californian  gold." 
And  the  fourth  was  written  with  one  of  the  two  gold  pens, 
which  were  the  shape  in  which  the  promised  "  two 
ounces"  were  sent  to  England  by  the  "  Enthusiast  :"— 

West  Lodge,  Putney,  October  loth,  1849. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  know  a  man  who  knows  a 
man  (in  America)  who  says,  "  I  would  give  two  ounces  of 
Californian  gold  for  two  lines  written  by  Mrs.  Cowden 
Clarke  !"  Will  you  write  me  two  lines  for  the  wise  enthu- 
siast.^ and,  IF  I  get  the  gold,  that  will  doubtless  be  paid  with 
the  Pennsylvanian  Bonds,  I  will  struggle  with  the  angel 
Conscience  that  you  may  have  it — that  is,  if  the  angel  get  the 
best  of  it.     But  against  angels  there  are  heavy  odds. 

I  hope  you  left  father  and  mother  well,  happy,  and  com- 

U 


290        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

placent,  in  the  hope  of  a  century  at  least.  I  am  glad  you 
stopped  at  Nice,  and  did  not  snuff  the  shambles  of  Rome. 
Mazzini,  I  hear,  will  be  with  us  in  a  fortnight.  European 
liberty  is,  I  fear,  manacled  and  gagged  for  many  years. 
Nevertheless,  in  England,  let  us  rejoice  that  beef  is  under  a 
shilling  a  pound,  and  that  next  Christmas  ginger  will  be  hot 
i'  the  mouth. 

Remember  me  to  Clarke.  I  intend  to  go  one  of  these 
nights  and  sit  beneath  him. — Yours  faithfully, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

October  19th,  1849,  Putney. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — Will  you  comply  with  the  wish 
of  my  correspondent  ?     The  Yankees,  it  appears,  are  sus- 
picious folks.     I  thought  them  Arcadians. — Truly  yours, 

D.  Jerrold. 

West  Lodge,  Putney  Common,  February  22nd,  1850. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  will  share  anything  with  you, 
and  can  only  wish — at  least  for  myself — that  the  matter  to 
be  shared  came  not  in  so  pleasant  a  shape  as  that  dirt  in 
yellow  gold.  I  have  heard  naught  of  the  American,  and 
would  rather  that  his  gift  came  brightened  through  you  than 
from  his  own  hand.  The  savage,  with  glimpses  of  civiliza- 
tion, is  male. 

Do  you  read  the  Morning  Chronicle?  Do  you  devour 
those  marvellous  revelations  of  the  inferno  of  misery,  ot 
wretchedness  that  is  smouldering  under  our  feet.''  We  live 
in  a  mockery  of  Christianity  that,  with  the  thought  of  its 
hypocrisy,  makes  m.e  sick.  We  know  nothing  of  this  terrible 
life  that  is  about  us — us,  in  our  smug  respectability.  To 
read  of  the  sufferings  of  one  class,  and  of  the  avarice,  the 
tyranny,  the  pocket  cannibalism  of  the  other,  makes  one 
almost  wonder  that  the  world  should  go  on,  that  the  miser)' 
and  wretchedness  of  the  earth  are  not,  by  an  Almighty  fiat, 
ended.  And  when  we  see  the  spires  of  pleasant  churches 
pointing  to  Heaven,  and  are  told — paying  thousands  to 
bishops  for  the  glad  intelligence — that  we  are  Christians  ! 
the  cant  of  this  country  is  enough  to  poison  the  atmosphere. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  291 

I  send  you  the  Clu-ojiiclc  of  yesterday.     You  will  therein  read 

what  I  think  you  will  agree  to  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful 

records  of  the  nobility  of  the  poor :  of  those  of  whom  our 

jaunty  legislators  know  nothing  ;  of  the  things  made  in  the 

statesman's  mind,  to  be  taxed— not  venerated.     I  am  very 

proud  to  say  that  these  papers  of  "  Labour  and  the  Poor '' 

were   projected   by  Henry  Mayhew,  who   married  my  girl. 

For  comprehensiveness  of  purpose  and  minuteness  of  detail 

they  have  never  been  approached.     He  will  cut  his  name 

deep.     From  these  things  I  have  still  great  hopes.     A  revival 

movement   is   at  hand,  and — you  will  see  what  you'll  see. 

Remember  me  with  best  thoughts  to  Clarke,  and  believe  me 

yours  sincerely, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

Putney,  February  25th,  1850. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — Herewith  I  send  you  my  "  first 
copy,"  done  in,  I  presume,  American  gold.  Considering 
what  American  booksellers  extract  from  English  brains,  even 
the  smallest  piece  of  the  precious  metal  is,  to  literary  eyes, 
refreshing.  I  doubt,  however,  whether  these  gold  pens  really 
work  ;  they  are  pretty  holiday  things,  but  to  earn  daily  bread 
with,  I  have  already  my  misgivings  that  I  must  go  back  to 
iron.  To  be  sure,  I  once  had  a  gold  pen  that  seemed  to 
write  of  itself,  but  this  was  stolen  by  a  Cinderella  who,  of 
course,  could  not  write  even  with  that  gold  pen.  Perhaps, 
however,  the  Policeman  could. 

That  the  Chronicle  did  not  come  was  my  blunder.  I  hope 
'twill  reach  you  with  this,  and  with  it  my  best  wishes  and 
affectionate  regards  to  you  and  flesh  and  bone  of  you. 

Truly  ever, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

The  next  note  evinces  how  acutely  Jerrold  felt  the 
death  of  excellent  Lord  George  Nugent :  the  wording  is 
solemn  and  earnest  as  a  low-toned  passing-bell : — 

Putney,  December  2nd,  1850. 
My  dear  Clarke, — I  have   received   book,  for   which 

u  2 


292        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

thanks,  and  best  wishes  for  that  and  all  followers.  Over  a 
sea-coal  fire,  this  week — all  dark  and  quiet  outside — I  shall 
enjoy  its  flavour.  Best  regards,  I  mean  love,  to  the  au- 
thoress. Poor  dear  Nugent !  He  and  I  became  great 
friends  :  I've  had  many  happy  days  with  him  at  Lilies.  A 
noble,  cordial  man  ;  and — the  worst  of  it — his  foolish  care- 
lessness of  health  has  flung  away  some  ten  or  fifteen  years  of 
genial  winter — frosty,  but  kindly.  God  be  with  him,  and  aJl 
yours.  Truly  yours, 

D. JERROLD. 

There  was  a  talk  at  one  time  of  bis  going  into  Parlia- 
ment; and  at  a  dinner-table  where  he  was  the  subject 
was  discussed,  there  chancing  to  be  present  several  mem- 
bers of  the  house,  some  of  them  spoke  of  the  very 
different  thing  it  ws>6  to  address  a  company  under  usual 
circumstances  and  to  *'  address  the  House,"  observing 
what  a  peculiarly  nervous  thing  it  was  to  face  tliat  assembly, 
and  that  few  men  could  picture  to  themselves  the  diffi- 
culty till  they  had  actually  encountered  it.  Jerrold 
averred  that  he  did  not  think  he  should  feel  this  par- 
ticular terror  :  then  turning  to  the  Parliamentary  men  pre- 
sent round  the  dinner-table,  he  counted  them  all,  and  said, 
"There  are  ten  of  you  members  of  Parliament  before 
me  ;  I  suppose  j-ou  don't  consider  yourselves  the  greatest 
fools  in  the  house,  and  yet  I  can't  say  that  I  feel  par- 
ticularly afraid  of  addressing  you." 

We  have  a  portrait  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  which  he  him- 
self sent  to  us ;  and  which  we  told  him  we  knew  must  be 
an  excellent  likeness,  for  we  always  found  ourselves  smiling 
whenever  we  looked  at  it.  A  really  good  likeness  of  a 
friend  we  think  invariably  produces  this  effect.  The 
smile  may  be  glad,  fond,  tender — nay,  even  mournful : 
but  a  smile  always  comes  to  the  lip  in  looking  upon  a 
truly  close  resemblance  of  a  beloved  ^ace. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  293 

Jerrold  was  occasionally  a  great  sufferer  from  rheumatic 
pains,  which  attacked  him  at  intervals  under  various 
forms.  The  following  letter  adverts  to  one  of  these 
severe  inflictions ;  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  written  in 
his  best  vein  of  animation  and  vigour  of  feeling  : — 

Friday,  Putney. 

My  dear  Clarke, — I  have  but  a  blind  excuse  to  offer  for 
my  long  silence  to  your  last :  but  the  miserable  truth  is,  I 
have  been  in  darkness  with  acute  inflammation  of  the  eye ; 
something  like  toothache  in  the  eye— and  very  fit  to  test  a 
man's  philosophy ;  when  he  can  neither  read  nor  write,  and 
has  no  other  consolation  save  first  to  discover  his  own 
virtues,  and  when  caught  to  contemplate  them.  I  assure 
you  it's  devilish  difficult  to  put  one's  hand  upon  one's  virtue 
in  a  dark  room.  As  well  try  to  catch  fleas  in  "  the  blanket 
o'  the  dark."  By  this,  however,  you  will  perceive  that  I  have 
returned  to  paper  and  ink.  The  doctor  tells  me  that  the  in- 
flammation fell  upon  me  from  an  atmospheric  blight,  rife  in 
these  parts  three  weeks  ago.  /  think  I  caught  it  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner,  where  for  three  minutes  I  paused  to  see  the 
Queen  pass  after  being  fired  at.  She  looked  very  well,  and — 
as  is  not  always  the  case  with  women— none  the  worse  for 
powder.  To  be  sure,  considering  they  give  princesses  a  salvo 
of  artillery  with  their  first  pap— they  ought  to  stand  saltpetre 
better  than  folks  who  come  into  the  world  v  'thout  any  charge 
to  tlie  State— without  even  blank  charge. 

Your  friend  of  the  beard  is,  I  think,  quite  right.  When 
God  made  Adam  he  did  7iot  present  him  with  a  razor,  but  a 
wife.  'Tis  the  d-d  old  clothesmen  who  have  brought  dis- 
credit upon  a  noble  appendage  of  man.  Thank  God  we've 
revenge  for  this.  They'll  make  some  of  'em  members  of 
Parliament. 

I  purpose  to  break  in  upon  you  some  early  Sunday,  to  kiss 
the  hands  of  your  wife,  and  to  tell  you  delightful  stories  of 
the  deaths  of  kings.  How  nobly  Mazzini  is  behaving  !  And 
what  a  cold,  calico  cur  is  John  Bull,  as — I  fear — too  truly 
rendered  by  the  Ti/nes.  The  French  are  in  a  nice  mess. 
Heaven  in  its  infmite  mercy  confound  them  ! — Truly  yours, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


294       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

And  now  we  give  the  last  letter,  alas  !  that  we  ever 
received  from  him.  It  is  comforting  in  its  hearty  valedic- 
tory words  :  yet  how  often  did  we — how  often  do  we 
still — regret  that  his  own  yearning  to  visit  the  south  could 
never  be  fulfilled  !  He  is  among  those  whom  we  most 
fiequently  find  ourselves  wishing  could  behold  this 
Italian  matchless  view  that  lies  now  daily  before  our 
eyes.  That  his  do  behold  it  with  some  higher  and 
diviner  power  of  sight  than  belongs  to  earthly  eyes  is  our 
constant,  confident  hope  : — 

26,  Circus  Road,  St.  John's  Wood, 

October  20th,  1856. 
My  dear  Friends,— I  have  delayed  an  answer  to  your 
kind  letter  (for  I  cannot  but  see  in  it  the  hands  and  hearts 
oiboth)  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  make  my  way  to  Bays- 
water.  Yesterday  I  had  determined,  and  was  barred,  and 
barred,  and  barred,  by  droppers-in,  the  Sabbath-breakers  I 
Lo,  I  delay  no  longer.  But  I  only  shake  hands  with  you  for 
a  time,  as  it  is  my  resolute  determination  to  spend  nine 
weeks  at  Nice  next  autumn  with  my  wife  and  daughter.  I 
shall  give  you  due  notice  of  the  descent,  that  we  may  avail 
ourselves  of  your  experience  as  to  "■  location,"  a.s  those  savages 
the  Americans  yell  in  their  native  war-whoop  tongue. 

Therefore,    God   speed    ye   safely  to  your   abiding-place, 
where  I  hope  long  days  of  serenest  peace  may  attend  ye. 

Believe  me  ever  truly  yours, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


Charles  Cowden 
Mary  Victoria 


I  Clarke. 


395 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS. 

It  chanced,  at  one  time  of  our  lives,  that  we  had  frequently 
to  pass  along  the  New  Road ;  and  as  we  drove  by  one 
particular   house — a   tall  house,   the   upper  windows  of 
which  were  visible  above  the  high  wall  that  enclosed  its 
fro'nt  garden — we  always  looked  at  it  with  affectionate 
interest  as  long  as  it  remained  in  sight._    For  in  that 
house.  No.    I,  Devonshire  Terrace,  we  knew  lived  the 
j^oung   author  who  had  "  witched  the  world  with  noble 
penmanship"    in  those    finely  original  serials  that    put 
forth  their  "  two  green  leaves  "  month  by  month.     We 
then  knew  no  more  of  his  personal  identity  than  what  we 
had  gathered  from  the  vigorous  youthful  portrait  of  him 
by  Samuel  Lawrence  as   "  Boz,"  and  from  having  seen 
him  and  heard  him  speak  at  the  "  Farewell  dinner  "  given 
to  Macready  in  1839.     We  little  thought,  as  we  gazed  at 
the  house  where  he  dwelt,  that  we  should  ever  come  to 
sit  within  its  walls,  palm  to  palm  in  greeting,  face  to  face 
in  talk,  side  by  side  at  table,  with  its  fascinating  master, 
who  shone  with  especial  charm  of  brilliancy  and  cordiality 
as  host  entertaining  his  guests.     We  knew  him  by  his 
portrait  to  be  superlatively  handsome,  with  his  rich,  wavy 
locks  of  hair"  and  his  magnificent  eyes  ;  and  we  knew 
him  by  what  we  saw  of  him  at  the  Macready  dinner  to  be 
possessed  of  remarkably  observant  faculty,  with  perpetually 
discursive  glances  at  those  around  him,  taking  note  as  it 


296        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

were  of  every  slightest  peculiarity  in  look,  or  manner,  or 
speech,  or  tone  that  characterized  each  individual.  No 
spoonful  of  soup  seemed  to  reach  his  lips  unaccompanied 
by  a  gathered  oddity  or  whimsicality,  no  morsel  to  be 
raised  on  his  fork  unseasoned  by  a  droll  gesture  or  trick 
he  had  remarked  in  some  one  near.  And  when  it  came 
to  his  turn  to  speak,  his  after-dinner  speech  was  one  of 
the  best  in  matter  and  style  of  delivery  then  given, 
— though  there  were  present  on  that  occasion  some 
practised  speakers.  His  speech  was  like  himself, — 
genial,  full  of  good  spirit  and  good  spirits,  of  kindly 
feeling  and  cheery  vivacity. 

At  length  came  that  never-to-be-forgotten  day — or 
rather,  evening — when  we  met  him  at  a  party,  and  were 
introduced  to  him  by  Leigh  Hunt,  who,  after  a  cordial 
word  or  two,  left  us  to  make  acquaintance  together.  At 
once,  with  his  own  inexpressible  charm  of  graceful  ease 
and  animation,  Charles  Dickens  fell  into  delightful  chat 
and  riveted  for  ever  the  chain  of  fascination  that  his  mere 
distant  image  and  enchanting  writings  had  cast  about 
M.  C.  C,  drawing  her  towards  him  with  a  perfect  spell 
of  prepossession.  The  prepossession  was  confirmed  into 
affectionate  admiration  and  attachment  that  lasted  faith- 
fully strong  throughout  the  happy  friendship  that  ensued, 
and  was  not  even  destroyed  by  death  ;  for  she  cherishes 
his  memory  still  with  as  fond  an  idolatry  as  she  felt  during 
that  joyous  period  of  her  life  when  in  privileged  holiday 
companionship  with  him. 

Charles  Dickens — beaming  in  look,  alert  in  manner, 
radiant  with  good  humour,  genial-voiced,  gay,  the  very 
soul  of  enjoyment,  fun,  good  taste  and  good  spirits, 
admirable  in  organizing  details  and  suggesting  novelty  of 
entertainment, — was  of  all  beings   the  very  man  for  a 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.   297 

holiday  season ;  and  in  singularly  exceptional  holiday 
fashion  was  it  my  ^  fortunate  hap  to  pass  every  hour  that 
I  spent  in  his  society.  First,  at  an  evening  party ; 
secondly,  during  one  of  the  most  unusually  festive  series 
of  theatrical  performances  ever  given  ;  thirdly,  in  delight- 
ful journeys  to  various  places  where  we  were  to  act ; 
fourthly,  in  hilarious  suppers  after  acting  (notedly  among 
the  most  jubilant  of  all  meal-meetings!);  fifthly,  in  one 
or  two  choice  little  dinner-parties  at  his  own  house  ;  sixthly, 
in  a  few  brilliant  assemblages  there,  when  artistic,  musical, 
and  literary  talent  were  represented  by  some  of  the  most 
eminent  among  artists,  musicians,  and  people  of  letters  of 
the  day;  seventhly,  in  a  dress  rehearsal  at  Devonshire 
House  of  Lytton  Bulwer's  drama  of  "  Not.  so  bad  as  we 
seem,"  played  by  Charles  Dickens  and  some  of  his  friends ; 
and,  eighthly,  in  a  performance  at  Tavistock  House  (where 
he  then  lived)  of  a  piece  called  "  The  Lighthouse,"  ex- 
pressly written  for  the  due  display  of  Charles  Dickens'  and 
his  friend  Mark  Lemon's  supremely  good  powers  of  acting. 
It  has  been  before  mentioned  that  when  I  first  offered 
Charles  Dickens  to  join  his  Amateur  Company  in  1848 
and  enact  Dame  Quickly  in  the  performance  of  Shake- 
speare's "  Merry  Wives,",  which  he  was  then  proposing, 
he  did  not  at  first  comprehend  that  my  offer  was  made 
in  earnest ;  but  on  my  writing  to  tell  him  so,  he  sent 
me  the  following  letter, —which,  when  I  received  it, 
threw  me  into  such  rapture  as  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of 
woman  possessing  a  strong  taste  for  acting,  yet  who 
could  hardly  have  expected  to  find  it  thus  suddenly 
gratified  in  a  manner  beyond  her  most  sanguine  hopes. 
I  ran  with  it  to  my  beloved  mother  (my  husband  was 

*  ]\Iary  Cowden  Clarke. 


298      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

in  the  North  of  England,  on  a  Lecture  tour),  knowing  her 
unfailing  sympathy  with  my  wildest  flights  of  gladness, 
and  re-read  it  with  her  : — 

Devonshire  Terrace,  14th  April,  1848. 

Dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke, — I  did  not  understand, 
when  I  had  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you  the  other 
evening,  that  you  had  really  considered  the  subject,  and 
desired  to  play.  But  I  am  very  glad  to  understand  it  now ; 
and  I  am  sure  there  will  be  a  universal  sense  among  us  of 
the  grace  and  appropriateness  of  such  a  proceeding.  Falstaff 
(who  depends  very  much  on  Mrs.  Quickly)  may  have,  in  his 
modesty,  some  timidity  about  acting  with  an  amateur 
actress.  But  I  have  no  question,  as  you  have  studied  the 
part,  and  long  wished  to  play  it,  that  you  will  put  him  com- 
pletely at  his  ease  on  the  first  night  of  your  rehearsal.  Will 
you,  towards  that  end,  receive  this  as  a  solemn  "  call " 
to  rehearsal  of  "  The  Merry  Wives "  at  Miss  Kelly's 
theatre,  to-morrow,  Saturday  week  at  seven  in  the 
evening  ? 

And  will  you  let  me  suggest  another  point  for  your  con- 
sideration ?  On  the  night  when  "  The  Merry  Wives"  will  not 
be  played,  and  when  "Every  man  in  his  Humour"  %vill  be, 
Kenny's  farce  of  "  Love,  Law,  and  Physic  "  will  be  acted. 
In  that  farce,  there  is  a  very  good  character  (one  Mrs. 
Hilary,  which  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Orger,  I  think,  act  to 
admiration)  that  would  have  been  "played  by  Mrs.  C.  Jones, 
if  she  had  acted  Dame  Quickly,  as  we  at  first  intended.  If 
you  find  yourself  quite  comfortable  and  at  ease  among  us,  in 
Mrs,  Quickly,  would  you  like  to  take  this  other  part  too  ?  It 
is  an  excellent  farce,  and  is  safe,  I  hope,  to  be  very  well  done. 

We  do  not  play  to  purchase  the  house  ^  (which  may  be 
positively  considered  as  paid  for),  but  towards  endowing  a 
perpetual  curatorship  of  it,  for  some  eminent  literary  veteran. 
And  I   think  you  will  recognize  in  this,  even  a  higher  and 


*  The  house  in  which  Shakespeare  was  born  at  Stratford- 
on-Avon.— M.  C.  C. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  299 

more  gracious  object  than  the  securing,  even,  of  the  debt 
incurred  for  the  house  itself. 

Believe  me,  veiy  faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

Amid  my  transport  and  excitement  there  mingled 
some  natural  trepidation  when  the  evening  of  "  the  first 
rehearsal  "  arrived,  and  I  repaired  with  my  sister  Emma — 
who  accompanied  me  throughout  my  "  Splendid  Stroll- 
ing •' — to  the  appointed  spot,  and  found  myself  among  the 
brilliant  group  assembled  on  the  stage  of  the  miniature 
theatre  in  Dean  Street,  Soho,  men  whom  I  had  long 
known  by  reputation  as  distinguished  artists  and  journal- 
ists. John  Forster,  Editor  of  the  Examiner ;  two  of  the 
main-stays  of  Punch,  Mark  Lemon,  its  Editor,  and 
John  Leech,  its  inimitable  illustrator ;  Augustus  Egg 
and  Frank  Stone,  whose  charming  pictures  floated  before 
my  vision  while  I  looked  at  themselves  for  the  first  time: 
all  turned  their  eyes  upon  the  "  amateur  actress  "  as  she 
entered  the  foot-lighted  circle  and  joined  their  company. 
But  the  friendliness  of  their  reception — as  Charles 
Dickens,  with  his  own  ready  grace  and  alacrity,  suc- 
cessively presented  her  to  them — soon  relieved  timidity 
on  her  part.  Forster's  gracious  and  somewhat  stately  bow 
was  accompanied  by  an  affable  smile  and  a  marked 
courtesy  that  were  very  winning ;  while  Mark  Lemon's 
fine  open  countenance,  sweet-tempered  look,  and 
frank  shake  of  the  hand,  at  once  placed  Falstaff"  and 
Mistress  Quickly  "  at  ease "  with  each  other.  There 
was  one  thing  that  helped  me  well  through  that 
evening.  I  had  previously  resolved  that  I  would 
'■'•speak  otif,"  and  not  rehearse  in  half-voice,  as  many 
amateur  performers  invariably  do  who  are  suffering  from 
shyness ;  but  I,  who,  though  I  did  not  feel  shy  in  acting, 


300       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

felt  a  good  deal  of  awe  at  my  brother  actors'  presence, 
took  refuge  in  maintaining  as  steady  and  duly  raised  a 
tone  of  voice  as  I  could  possibly  muster.  This  stood 
me  in  doubly  good  stead ;  it  proved  to  them  that  I  was 
not  liable  to  stage  fright — for,  the  amateur-performer 
who  can  face  the  small,  select  audience  of  a  few  whom 
he  knows  (which  is  so  infinitely  more  really  trying  to 
courage  than  the  assembled  sea  of  unknown  faces  in  a 
theatre)  runs  little  risk  of  failure  in  performance  after 
success  in  rehearsal, — and  it  tested  to  myself  my  own 
powers  of  self-possession  and  capability  of  making  my- 
self heard  in  a  public  and  larger  assemblage. 

I  was  rewarded  by  being  told  that  in  next  Monday 
morning's  Times,  which  gave  an  amiable  paragraph 
about  the  rehearsal  at  Miss  Kelly's,  there  were  a  few 
words  to  the  effect  that  Dame  Quickly,  who  was  the 
only  lady  amateur  among  the  troop,  promised  to  be  an 
acquisition  to  the  company. 

Then  followed  other  rehearsals,  delightful  in  the  ex- 
treme; Charles  Dickens  ever  present,  superintending, 
directing,  suggesting,  with  sleepless  activity  and  vigi- 
lance :  the  essence  of  punctuality  and  methodical 
precision  himself,  he  kept  incessant  watch  that  others 
should  be  unfailingly  attentive  and  careful  throughout. 
Unlike  most  professional  rehearsals,  where  waiting  about, 
dawdling,  and  losing  time,  seem  to  be  the  order  of  the  day, 
the  rehearsals  under  Charles  Dickens'  stage-manager- 
ship were  strictly  devoted  to  work — serious,  earnest, 
work;  the  consequence  was,  that  when  the  evening  of 
performance  came,  the  pieces  went  off  with  a  smoothness 
and  polish  that  belong  only  to  finished  stage-business 
and  practised  performers.  He  was  always  there  among 
the  first  arrivers  at  rehearsals,  and  remained  in  a  con- 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  301 

spicuous  position  during  their  progress  till  the  very  last 
moment  of  conclusion.  He  had  a  small  table  placed 
rather  to  one  side  of  the  stage,  at  which  he  generally  sat, 
as  the  scenes  went  on  in  which  he  himself  took  no  part. 
On  this  table  rested  a  moderate-sized  box  ;  its  interior 
divided  into  convenient  compartments  for  holding  papers, 
letters,  etc.,  and  this  interior  was  always  the  very  pink  of 
neatness  and  orderly  arrangement.  Occasionally  he 
would  leave  his  seat  at  the  managerial  table,  and  stand 
with  his  back  to  the  foot-lights,  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
front  of  the  stage,  and  view  the  whole  effect  of  the  re- 
hearsed performance  as  it  proceeded,  observing  the 
attitudes  and  positions  of  those  engaged  in  the  dialogue, 
their  mode  of  entrance,  exit,  etc.,  etc.  He  never  seemed 
to  overlook  anything ;  but  to  note  the  very  slightest 
point  that  conduced  to  the  "  going  well "  of  the  whole 
performance.  With  all  this  supervision,  however,  it 
was  pleasant  to  remark  the  utter  absence  of  dictatorial- 
ness  or  arrogation  of  superiority  that  distinguished  his 
mode  of  ruling  his  troop  :  he  exerted  his  authority  firmly 
and  perpetually ;  but  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  it 
universally  felt  to  be  for  no  purpose  of  self-assertion  or 
self-importance ;  on  the  contrary,  to  be  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  ensuring  general  success  to  their  united  efforts. 

Some  of  these  rehearsals  were  productive  of  incidents ' 
that  gave  additional  zest  to  their  intrinsic  interest.  I 
remember  one  evening.  Miss  Kelly — Charles  Lamb's 
admired  Fanny  Kelly— standing  at  "the  wing"  while  I 
went  through  my  first  scene  with  Falstaff,  watching  it 
keenly ;  and  afterwards,  coming  up  to  me,  uttering  many 
kind  words  of  encouragement,  approval,  and  lastly  sug- 
gestion, ending  with,  "  Mind  you  stand  well  forward 
on  the  stage  while  you  speak  to  Sir  John,  and  don't  let 


302       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

that  great  big  burly  man  hide  you  from  the  audience  ; 
you  generally  place  yourself  too  near  him,  and  rather  in 
the  rear  of  his  elbow."  I  explained  that  my  motive  had 
been  to  denote  the  deference  paid  by  the  messenger  of 
the  "  Merry  Wives  "  to  the  fat  Knight,  and  that  it  might 
be  I  unconsciously  had  the  habit  of  usually  standing 
anything  but  in  advance  of  those  with  whom  I  talked ; 
for  it  had  often  been  observed  by  m.y  friends  that  I  did 
this,  and  also  generally  allowed  others  to  pass  before  me 
in  or  out  of  a  room.  She  laughed  and  said  she  too  had 
observed  these  peculiarities  in  me  ;  and  then  she  gave 
me  another  good  stage  hint,  saying,  "  Always  keep 
your  eyes  looking  well  tip,  and  try  to  fix  them  on  the 
higher  range  of  boxes,  otherwise  they  are  lost  to  the 
audience ;  and  much  depends  on  the  audience  getting  a 
good  sight  of  the  eyes  and  their  expression."  I  told  her 
that  I  dreaded  the  glare  of  the  chandelier  and  lights,  as 
my  eyes  were  not  strong.  She  replied,  "  Look  well  up, 
and  you'll  find  that  the  under  eyelids  will  quite  protect 
you  from  the  glare  of  the  foot-lights,  the  dazzle  of  which 
is  the  chief  thing  that  perplexes  the  sight."  On  the 
night  of  the  dress  rehearsal  at  Miss  Kelly's  thentre  of 
the  "  Merry  Wives,"  William  Macready  came  to  see  us 
play  ;  and  during  one  of  the  intervals  between  the  acts, 
Charles  Dickens  brought  him  on  to  the  stage  and  in- 
troduced him  to  me.  The  reader  may  imagine  what  a 
flutter  of  pleasure  stirred  my  heart,  as  I  stood  with  ap- 
parent calm  talking  to  the  great  tragedian ;  at  length 
plucking  up  sufficient  bravery  of  ease  to  tell  him  how 
much  I  admired  his  late  enacting  of  Benedick,  and  the 
artistic  mode  in  which  he  held  up  the  muscles  of  his 
face  so  as  to  give  a  light-comedy  look  to  the  visage  ac- 
customed to  wear  a  stern  aspect  in  Coriolanus,  a  sad  one 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  303 

in  Hamlet,  a  serious  one  in  Macbeth,  a  worn  one  in 
Lear,  etc.  As  I  spoke,  the  "  muscles  of  his  face  "  visibly 
relaxed  into  the  pleasant  smile  so  exquisite  on  a  coun- 
tenance of  such  rugged  strength  and  firmness  as  his  ;  and 
he  looked  thoroughly  amused  and  not  ungratified  by  niy 
boldness.  I  was  amused,  and  moreover  amazed,  at  it  my- 
self, as  we  remained  conversing  on  ;  until  the  time  for 
resuming  the  rehearsal  came,  and  I  had  the  honour  of 
hearing  the  technical  cry  of  "  Clear  the  stage  !  "  addressed 
to  Macready  and  myself  {^)  and  having  to  hurry  off"  the 
boards  together  (!)  Then  there  were  rehearsals  on  the 
Haymarket  stage  itself,  that  we  might  become  acquainted 
with  the  exact  locality  on  which  we  were  to  give  the  two 
nights  of  London  public  performance.  The  time  fixed 
for  one  of  these  rehearsals  was  early  in  the  afternoon  of 
a  day  when  there  had  been  a  morning  rehearsal  of  the 
Haymarket  company  themselves  ;  and  I  was  diverted  to 
notice  that  several  of  its  members  remained  lingering 
about  the  side  scenes — the  professionals  interested  to  see 
how  the  amateurs  would  act.  Among  them  was  William 
Farren,  who,  when  a  young  man  of  little  more  than  twenty, 
was  so  excellent  an  impersonator  of  old  men,  and  whose 
Lord  Ogleby,  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  and  other  old-gentlemanly 
characters,  will  not  readily  be  forgotten  by  those  who 
saw  him  play  them.  There  too,  that  afternoon,  with  the 
daylight  streaming  through  an  upper  window  upon  her 
surpassingly  beautiful  face,  was  Mrs.  Nesbitt ;  and,  to  the 
dismay  of  one  who  knew  herself  to  be  well-nigh  as  plain 
and  quiet-looking  as  Mrs.  Nesbitt  was  handsome  and  bril- 
liant, they  both  chanced  to  wear  on  that  occasion  precisely 
the  same  kind-  of  grey  chip  bonnet,  Avith  pale  pink  tulle 
veil  and  trimmings,  which  was  at  that  time  ^^  the  fashion." 
This  was  a  bit  of  secret  feminine  consciousness  which  it 


304        RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

seems  strange  to  be  now  revealing;  but  it  occurred  in 
that  bright,  keenly-felt  time,  when  everything  seemed 
especially  vivid  to  its  enjoyer,  and  is  therefore  worth 
while  recording  as  lending  vividness  and  reality  to  the 
impressions  sought  to  be  conveyed  by  the  present 
writer  in  her  fast  advancing  old  age. 

Besides  a  list  of  rehearsals  and  a  copy  of  the  "  Rules 
for  Rehearsals "  (extracts  from  which  are  given  in  a 
Note  at  page  363-4,  vol.  ii.,  of  Forster's  "  Life  of 
Charles  Dickens  ")  signed  by  his  own  hand,  I  had  re- 
ceived the  following  notelet  in  reply  to  my  inquiry  of 
what  edition  of  Shakespeare's  "Merry  Wives"  would  be 
used ;  all  giving  token  of  his  promptitude  and  business- 
like attention  to  the  enterprise  in  hand.  The  *'  family 
usage  "  alluded  to  was  that  of  always  calling  him  at  home 
by  the  familiar  loving  appellation  of  "  Dear  Dickens  "  or 
"  Darling  Dickens."  So  scrupulously  has  been  treasured 
every  scrap  of  his  writing  addressed  to  me  or  penned  for 
me,  that  the  very  brown  paper  cover  in  which  the  copy 
of  "  Love,  Law,  and  Physic  "  was  sent  is  still  in  existence ; 
as  is  the  card,  bearing  the  words  "  Pass  to  the  stage  : 
Charles  Dickens,"  with  the  emphatic  scribble  beneath 
his  name,  which  formed  the  magic  order  for  entrance 
through  the  stage-door  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre  : — 

Devonshire  Terrace,  Sunday  morning, 
1 6th  April,  1848. 
Dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,— As  I  am  the  Stage 
manager,  you  could  not  have  addressed  your  inquiry  to  a 
more  fit  and  proper  person.  The  mode  of  address  would  be 
unobjectionable,  but  for  the  knowledge  you  give  me  of  that 
family  usage, — which  I  think  preferable,  and  indeed  quite 
perfect. 

Enclosed  is  Knight's  cabinet  edition  of  the  "  Merry  Wives;" 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  305 

from  which  the  company  study.  I  also  send  you  a  copy  of 
*'  Love,  Law,  and  Physic."  BeHeve  me  ahvays  veiy  faith- 
fully yours,  Charles  Dickens. 

As  the  period  for  performance  approached,  I  more  and 
more  regretted  that  my  husband  was  still  away  lecturing ; 
but,  as  whenever  he  was  absent  from  home  we  invariably 
wrote  to  each  other  once  (sometimes  twice)  a  day,  he 
and  I  were  able  thoroughly  to  follow  in  spirit  all  that  we 
were  respectively  engaged  with  and  interested  in.- 

The  date  of  our  first  night  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre 
was  the  15th  of  May,^  1848  ;  when  the  entertainment 
consisted  of  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor "  and 
"Animal  Magnetism."  The  "make  up"  of  Charles 
Dickens  as  Justice  Shallow  was  so  complete,  that  his 
own  identity  Avas  almost  unrecognizable,  when  he  came  on 
to  the  stage,  as  the  curtain  rose,  in  company  wdth  Sir 
Hugh  and  Master  Slender ;  but  after  a  moment's  breath- 
less pause,  the  whole  house  burst  forth  into  a  roar  of 
applausive  reception,  which  testified  to  the  boundless  de- 
light of  the  assembled  audience  on  beholding  the  literary 
idol  of  the  day,  actually  before  them.  His  impersonation 
was  perfect :  the  old,  stiff  limbs,  the  senile  stoop  of  the 
shoulders,  the  head  bent  with  age,  the  feeble  step,  wdth 
a  certain  attempted  smartness  of  carriage  characteristic 
of  the  conceited  Justice  of  the  Peace,— were  all  assumed 
and  maintained  with  wonderful  accuracy ;  while  the 
articulation,— part  lisp,  part  thickness  of  utterance,  part  a 
kind  of  impeded  sibillation,  like  that  of  a  voice  that 
"  pipes  and  whistles  in  the  sound"  through  loss  of  teeth — 

*  In  Forster's  "Life  of  Charles  Dickens"  the  month   is 
•  erroneously  stated  to  be  April  ;  but  I  have  the  Haymarket 
Play-bill,  beautifully  printed  in  delicate  colours,  now  before 
me.— M.  C.  C. 

X 


3o6       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

gave  consummate  effect  to  his  mode  of  speech.  The 
one  in  which  Shallow  says,  "  'Tis  the  heart,  Mastei 
Page  ;  'tis  here,  'tis  here.  I  have  seen  the  time  with  my 
long  sword  I  would  have  made  you  four  tall  fellows  skip 
like  rats,"  was  delivered  with  a  humour  of  expression  in 
effete  energy  of  action  and  would-be  fire  of  spirit  that 
marvellously  imaged  fourscore  years  in  its  attempt  to 
denote  vigour  long  since  extinct. 

Mark  Lemon's  Sir  John  Falstaff  was  a  fine  embodiment 
of  rich,  unctuous,  enjoying  raciness ;  no  caricatured, 
rolling  greasiness  and  grossness,  no  exaggerated  vul- 
garization of  Shakespeare's  immortal  "fat  knight;"  but  a 
florid,  rotund,  self-contented,  self-indulgent  voluptuary  — 
thoroughly  at  his  ease,  thoroughly  prepared  to  take 
advantage  of  all  gratification  that  might  come  in  his  way; 
and  throughout  preserving  the  manners  of  a  gentleman, 
accustomed  to  the  companionship  of  a  prince,  "  the  best 
king  of  good  fellows."  John  Forster's  Master  Ford  wag 
a  carefully  finished  performance.  John  Leech's  Mastei 
Slender  was  picturesquely  true  to  the  gawky,  flabby, 
booby  squire :  hanging  about  in  various  attitudes  of  limp 
ecstasy,  limp  embarrassment,  limp  disconsolateness.  His 
mode  of  sitting  on  the  stile,  with  his  long,  ungainly  legs 
dangling  down,  during  the  duel  scene  between  Sir  Hugh 
and  Dr.  Caius,  looking  vacantly  out  across  "  the  fields," 
as  if  in  vapid  expectation  of  seeing  "  Mistress  Anne  Page 
at  a  farm-house  a-feasting," — as  promised  him  by  that 
roguish  wag  mine  Host  of  the  Garter,  ever  and  anon 
ejaculating  his  maudlin,  cuckoo-cry  of  "  Oh  sweet  Anne 
Page," — was  a  delectable  treat.  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes's 
acting,  and  especially  his  dancing,  as  Sir  Hugh  Evans, 
were  very  dainty,  with  a  peculiar  drollery  and  (juaintness, 
singularly  befitting  the  peppery  but  kindly-natured  Welsh 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  307 

parson.  .1  once  heard  Mr.  Lewes  wittily  declare  that  his 
were  not  so  much  "  animal  spirits,"  as  "  vegetable  spirits;" 
and  these  kfnd  of  ultra  light  good-humours  shone  to 
great  advantage  in  his  conception  and  impersonation  of 
Sir  Hugh.  George  Cruikshanks  as  mine  Ancient  Pistol, 
was  supremely  artistic  in  "  get  up,"  costume,  and  attitude  ; 
fantastic,  spasmodic,  ranting,  bullying.  Though  taking 
the  small  part  of  Slender's  servant.  Simple,  Augustus  Egg 
was  conspicuous  for  good  judgment  and  good  taste  in  his 
presentment  of  the  character.  Over  his  well-chosen 
suit  of  sober-coloured  doublet  and  hose  he  wore  a  leather 
thong  round  his  neck  that  hung  loosely  over  his  chest ; 
and  he  told  me  he  had  added  this  to  his  dress,  because 
inasmuch  as  Master  Slender  was  addicted  to  sport, 
iiiterested  in  coursing,  and  in  Page's  "fallow  greyhound," 
it  was  likely  that  his  retainer  would  carry  a  dog-leash 
about  him.  Egg  was  a  careful  observer  of  costume  ;  and 
expressed  his  admiration  of  mine  for  Dame  Quickly, 
remarking  (like  a  true  artist)  that  it  looked  "  more  toned 
down"  than  the  rest  of  the  company's,  and  seemed  as  if 
it  might  have  been  worn  in  Windsor  streets,  during  the 
daily  trottings  to  and  fro  of  the  match-making  busy-body. 
It  may  well  have  looked  thus  ;  for  while  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  company  had  their  dresses  made  expressly  for 
the  occasion  by  a  stage  costume-maker,  I  had  fabricated 
Dame  Quickly's  from  materials  of  my  own,  previously 
used,  in  order  that  they  might  not  look  "  too  new"  and 
that  they  might  be  in  strict  consonance  with  my  ideas  of 
correct  dressing  for  the  part.  To  this  end,  I  had  written 
to  ask  the  aid  of  Colonel  Hamilton  Smith,  an  authority 
in  costumes  of  all  ages  and  countries.  To  my  inquiry 
respecting  Dame  Quickly's  costume,  he  replied  by  sending 
me  two  coloured  sketches  accompanied  by  a  kind  letter 

X  2 


3o8      RECOLLECTIONS  OE   WRITERS. 

from  which  I  transcribe  this  extract,  evincing  his  extreme 
care  to  ensure  accuracy  : — 

"  I  find  only  one  difficulty  in  producing  a  drawing  for 
Mistress  Quickly,  and  that  is  whether  on  the  stage  it  is  now 
a  clear  case  as  to  the  date  to  be  assigned,  not  the  writing  of 
the  play,  but  the  period  when  Falstaff  and  the  Merry  Wive? 
are  to  be  supposed  living.  If  you  take  the  date  of  Henry  IV. 
or  Henry  v.,  that  is  between  1400  and  1425,  or  the  beginning 
of  the  se\-enteenth  century,  between  1600  and  1620.  Shake- 
speare, I  beheve,  had  no  image  in  his  view  but  that  of  his 
own  times,  and  I  believe  also  the  figures  artists  have  given 
relating  to  the  play  are  all,  with  some  licence,  of  the  times 
of  Elizabeth  and  James  I.  My  own  opinion  is  hkewise 
inclining  to  that  period,  because  the  humorous  character  of 
the  play  becomes  more  obvious  when  represented  in  dresses 
and  scenery  which  we  can  better  appreciate  for  that  purpose 
than  when  we  take  the  more  recondite  manners  of  the  age 
when  the  red  rose  was  in  the  ascendant.  The  special 
character  oi  Mistress  Quickly,  with  manners  somewhat 
dashed  with  Puritanism,  dresses  admirably  in  the  later  period, 
and  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  early  period  of  the  Lollards. 
No  dress  of  the  time  would  tell  the  audience  that  it  is  the 
costume  of  a  Mistress  Quickly.  It  would  only  show  a 
gentlewoman,  a  young  lady,  or  a  countrywoman. 

This  question  being  settled,  I  have  now  only  to  offer  a 
dress,  and  I  recommend  that  of  a  Dame  Bonifant  figured  on 
a  Devon  brass  of  the  year  1614.  I  think  you  will  find  it 
sufficiently  -biquant ;  demure  though  it  be.  I  think  it  just 
the  thing,  and  you  may  select  the  colours  that  will  suit  you 
best.  The  other  is  Champernoun  Lady  Slanning,  from  her 
monument  dating  1583  If  this  period  will  not  answer,  pray 
let  me  know,  and  I  will  endeavour  to  select  others  ot  the 
times  of  Henry  IV.  and  V." 

In  making  my  dress  for  Dame  Quickly,  I  availed  my- 
self ot  Colonel  Hamilton  Smith's  suggestions  and  sketches 
for  some  particulars ;  but  also  copied  trom  the  effective 
costume  given  by  Kenny  Meadows  to  her  at  p.  91,  vol  i. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LEI2ERS.  309 

of  his  "  Illustrated  Shakespeare,"  published  by  Tyas  in 
1843.  To  the  very  characteristic  coit  there  depicted 
(which  I  made  in  black  velvet  lined  with  scarlet  silk)  I 
added  a  pinner  and  lappet  of  old  point-lace,  the  latter  of 
which  floated  from  the  outside  together  with  long  ribbon 
streamers  of  scarlet,  so  as  to  give  an  idea  of  "  the  ship- 
tire"  mentioned  by  Falstaff,  as  one  of  the  fashionable 
head-gears  of  the  period.  William  Havell,  the  artist,  a 
short  time  afterwards  made  for  my  husband  a  water- 
coloured  sketch  of  me  in  my  Quickly  costume  ;  which 
now  hangs  in  the  picture-gallery  of  our  Italian  home ;  and 
it  gave  me  a  strange  feeling  of  suddenly-recalled  past 
times  amid  the  present,  when  the  other  day  I  saw  the 
delicate  point  lappet  and  pinner, — worn  by  Dame 
Quickly  in  1848, 'and  which  had  been  given  to  my  niece 
Valeria, — figuring  round  the  young  throat  as  a  modern 
lace  cravat  in  1876. 

As  I  stood  at  the  side  scene  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre 
that  memorable  May  night  with  Augustus  Egg,  waiting  to 
make  our  first  entrance  together  upon  the  stage,  and  face 
that  sea  of  faces,  he  asked  me  whether  I  felt  nervous. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  I  replied  ;  "  my  heart  beats  fast ; 
but  it  is  with  joyful  excitement,  not  with  alarm."  And, 
from  first  to  last,  "joyful  excitement"  was  what  I  felt 
during  that  enchanting  episode  in  my  life. 

In  Mrs.  Inchbald's  amusing  farce  of  "  Animal  Mag- 
netism," the  two  characters  of  the  Doctor  and  La  Fleur, 
as  played  by  Charles  Dickens  and  Mark  Lemon,  formed 
the  chief  points  of  drollery  :  but  in  the  course  of  the 
piece,  an  exquisitely  ludicrous  bit  of  what  is  technically 
called  "  Gag  "  was  introduced  into  the  scene  where  George 
Lewes,  as  the  Marquis,  pretends  to  fall  into  a  fit  of 
rapturous  delirium,  exclainiing, — 


3IO      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WELTERS. 

"  WTiat  thrilling  transport  rushes  to  my  heart ;  Nature 
appears  to  my  ravished  eyes  more  beautiful  than  poets 
ever  formed  !  Aurora  dawns — the  feathered  songsters 
chant  their  most  melodious  strains—  the  gentle  zephyrs 
breathe,"  etc. 

At  the  words,  "  Aurora  dawns,"  Dickens  interrupted 
with  "  Who  dawns  ?  "  And  being  answered  with  "  Aurora," 
exclaimed  "  La  ! !"  in  such  a  tone  of  absurd  wonderment, 
as  if  he  thought  anybody  rather  than  Aurora  might  have 
been  expected  to  dawn. 

The  first  night's  Haymarket  performance  was  followed 
by  my  dining  next  evening  at  Charles  Dickens'  house  in 
Devonshire  Terrace,  when  Mrs.  Dickens,  having  a  box 
at  the  opera  to  see  Jenny  Lind  in  "  La  Sonnambula,"  in- 
vited me  to  go  with  her  there  ;  and  immediately  upon 
this  ensued  the  second  night's  performance  at  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  when  the  play-bill  announced  Ben 
Jonson's  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,"  and  Kenny's  farce 
of  "Love,  Law,  and  Physic." 

The  way  in  which  Charles  Dickens  impersonated  that 
arch  braggart,  Captain  Bobadil,  was  a  veritable  piece  of 
genius  :  from  the  moment  when  he  is  discovered  lolling 
at  full  length  on  a  bench  in  his  lodging,  calling  for  a  "  cup 
o'  small  beer"  to  cool  down  the  remnants  of  excitement 
from  last  night's  carouse  with  a  set  of  roaring  gallants,  till 
his  final  boast  of  having  "  not  so  much  as  once  offered  to 
resist"  the  "  coarse  fellow"  who  set  upon  him  in  the  open 
streets,  he  was  capital.  The  mode  in  which  he  went  to 
the  back  of  the  stage  before  he  made  his  exit  from  the 
first  scene  ot  Act  ii.,  uttering  the  last  word  of  the  taunt 
he  flings  at  Downright  with  a  bawl  of  stentorian  loudness 
— "  Scavenger  !"  and  then  darted  off  the  stage  at  full 
speed ;    the   insolent  scorn  of  his  exclamation,    "  This 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  3 1 1 

a  Toledo?  pish!"  bending  the  sword  into  a  curve  as  he 
spoke ;  the  swaggering  assumption  of  ease  with  which  he 
leaned  on  the  shoulder  of  his  interlocutor,  pulhng  away 
his  tobacco  smoke  and  puffing  it  oft"  as  "  your  right 
Trinidado ;"  the  grand  impudence  of  his  lying  when 
explaining  how  he  would  despatch  scores  of  the  enemy, — 
"  challenge  twenty  more,  kill  them ;  twenty  more,  kill 
them  ;  twenty  more,  kill  them  too  ;"  ending  by  "  twenty 
score,  that's  two  hundred  ;  two  hundred  a  day,  five  days 
a  thousand  ;  forty  thousand  ;  forty  times  five,  five  times 
forty,  two  hundred  days  kills  them  all  up  by  computation," 
rattling  the  words  off  while  making  an  invisible  sum  of 
addition  in  the  air,  and  scoring  it  conclusively  with  an 
invisible  line  underneath, — were  all  the  very  height 
of  fun. 

It  was  noteworthy,  as  an  instance  of  the  forethought  as 
to  eifect  given  to  even  the  slightest  points,  that  he  and 
Leech  (who  played  Master  Mathew)  had  their  stage-wigs 
made,  for  the  parts  they  played  in  Ben  Jonson's  comedy, 
of  precisely  opposite  cut  :  Bobadil's  being  fuzzed  out  at 
the  sides  and  extremely  bushy,  while  Master  Mathew's 
was  flat  at  the  ears  and  very  highly  peaked  above  his 
forehead.  In  the  green-room,  between  the  acts,  after 
Bobadil  has  received  his  drubbing  and  been  well  cudgelled 
in  the  fourth  act,  and  has  to  reappear  in  the  first  scene  of 
the  fifth  act,  I  saw  Charles  Dickens  wetting  the  plume  of 
vari-coloured  feathers  in  his  hat,  and  taking  some  of 
them  out,  so  as  to  give  an  utterly  crest-fallen  look  to  his 
general  air  and  figure.  "  Don't  take  out  the  white 
feather  ! "  I  said  ;  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  quick  glance 
up  with  which  he  recognized  the  point  of  my  meaning. 
He  had  this  delightful,  bright,  rapid  glance  of  intelligence 
in  his  eye  whenever  anything  was  said  to  please  him  ;  and 


312       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

it  was  my  good  hap  many  times  to  see  this  sudden  light 
flash  forth. 

The  farce  of  "  Love,  Law,  and  Physic"  was  a  large  field, 
for  the  very  hey-day  of  frolic  and  mirth.  The  opening 
scene,  with  its  noisy  bustle  of  arrival  of  the  fellow- 
travellers  in  the  stage  coach  at  the  Inn ;  the  dash  and 
audacity  of  Lawyer  Flexible  (Dickens) ;  the  loutish  con- 
ceit and  nose-led  dupedom  of  Lubin  Log  (Lemon) ;  the 
crowning  absurdity  of  the  scene  where  they  pay  court  to 
the  supposed  Spanish  heiress  ;  which  last — by  the  time 
we  had  played  it  four  times,  reached  a  perfect  climax  of 
uproarious  "  gag  "  and  merriment  on  the  fifth  representa- 
tion— always  kindled  the  house  into  sympathetic  uproar. 
Mark  Lemon's  lumpish  approaches,  stealthily  kissing  his 
hand  to  the  stage  diamonds  worn  profusely  in  my  hair  to 
fasten  the  Spanish  veil,  turning  to  Charles  Dickens  with 
a  loud  aside  :  "  Eh  ?  All  real,  I  suppose,  eh  ?  "  and  be- 
tween every  speech  looking  to  him  for  support  or  prompted 
inspiration  of  love-making ;  extra  ridiculous  scraps  in- 
troduced into  the  dialogue  where  the  Spanish  lady  men- 
tions her  accomplishments,  "  Prosody,  painting,  poetry, 
music  and  phlebotomy" — at  the  word  "  music,"  Lemon 
used  to  turn  to  Dickens  and  say,  *'  What  ? — so  ? " 
{making  signs  of  playing  on  the  violoncello ;)  when  the 
reply  was,  "No,  no; — so,"  {making  signs  0/ playing  on 
the  piaiioforte  •)  and  on  my  adding,  "  poonah-painting — " 
Lemon  used  to  turn  to  his  friend  ajid  abettor  with, 
"  What  ?  Poney-painting  ?  Does  she  draw  horses  ?  "  till 
laughter  among  the  audience  was  infectiously  and  irre- 
pressibly  met  by  laughter  on  the  stage,  in  the  side  scenes, 
where  the  rest  of  the  company  used  to  cluster  like  bees 
(against  all  rule  !)  to  see  that  portion  of  the  farce. 

In   token   of  Charles    Dickens's    appropriateness    of 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LE  TTERS  3 1 3 

gesture,  and  dramatic  discrimination,  I  may  instance  his 
different  mode  of  entrance  on  the  stage  with  me  as  Dame 
Quickly  and  as  Mrs.  Hilary.  Where  Justice  Shallow 
comes  hurriedly  in  with  the  former,  Act  iii.  Scene  4, 
saying  to  her,  "Break  their  talk,  Mistress  Quickly;" 
he  used  to  have  hold  of  my  arm,  partly  leaning  on  it, 
partly  leading  me  on  by  it, — ^just  like  an  old  man  with  an 
inferior  :  but  -  as  the  curtain  rose  to  the  ringing  of  bells, 
the  clattering  of  horses,  the  blowing  of  mail-coach  horn, 
the  voices  of  passengers  calling  to  waiter  and  chamber- 
maid, etc.,  at  the  opening  of"  Love,  Law,  and  Physic," — 
Charles  Dickens  used  to  tuck  me  under  his  arm  with  the 
free-and-easy  familiarity  of  a  lawyer  patronizing  an  actress 
whom  he  chances  to  find  his  fellow-traveller  in  a  stage 
coach,  and  step  smartly  on  the  stage,  with — "Come, bustle, 
bustle  ;  tea  and  coffee  for  the  ladies." — It  is  something 
to  remember,  having  been  tucked  under  the  arm  by 
Charles  Dickens,  and  had  one's  hand  hugged  against 
his  side !  One  thinks  better  of  one's  hand  ever  after.  He 
used  to  be  in  such  a  state  of  high  spirits  when  he  played 
Flexible,  and  so  worked  himself  into  hilarity  and  glee  for 
the  part,  that  he  more  than  once  said  in  those  days, 
"Somehow,  I  never  see  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  but  I  feel 
impelled  to  address  her  with  '  Exactly  ;  and  thus  have 
I  .learned  from  his  own  obliging  communication,  that  he 
is  the  rival  of  my  friend.  Captain  Danvers  ;  who,  fortu- 
nately for  the  safety  of  Mr.  Log's  nose,  happened  to  be 
taking  the  air  on  the  box.'"  And  he  actually  did,  more 
than  once,  utter  these  words  (one  of  Flexible's  first 
speeches  to  Mrs.  Hilary)  when  we  met.  He  was  very 
fond  of  this  kind  of  reiterated  joke. 

Next  came  our  first  set  of  provincial  performances, — 
Manchester,  3rd  June;  Liverpool,  5th  June;  and  Bir- 


314      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

mingham,  6th  June,  1848.  What  times  those  were! 
What  rapturous  audiences  a-tiptoe  with  expectation  to 
see,  hear,  and  welcome  those  whom  they  had  known  and 
loved  through  their  written  or  delineated  productions. 
What  a  heap  of  flowers — exquisitely  choice  orchids  and 
rare  blossoms — packed  carefully  in  a  box  by  a  friend's 
hand,  awaited  our  arrival  at  the  Manchester  Hotel,  and 
furnished  me  with  a  special  rose-bud  for  Charles  Dickens' 
acceptance,  and  button-hole  nosegays  for  the  other  gen- 
tlemen of  the  company ;  besides  a  profusion  for  Mrs. 
Charles  Dickens,  her  sister,  and  the  professional  ladies 
who  travelled  with  us.  What  crowds  assembled  on  the 
landing-place  of  the  stairs,  and  in  the  passages  of  the 
Liverpool  hotel,  to  see  the  troupe  pass  down  to  dinner ! 
What  enthusiastic  hurrahs  at  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  and 
as  each  character  in  succession  made  his  appearance  On 
the  stage.  Of  course,  in  general,  the  storm  of  plaudits 
was  loudest  when  Charles  Dickens  was  recognized  ;  but 
at  Birmingham  such  a  rave  of  delight  was  heard  at  an 
unaccustomed  point  of  the  play,  tliat  we  in  the  Green- 
room (who  watched  with  interested  ears  the  various 
"receptions"  given)  exclaimed,  "  Why,  who's  that  gone 
on  to  the  stage  ?  "  It  proved  to  be  George  Cruikshanks, 
whose  series  of  admirably  impressive  pictures  called 
"  The  Bottle  "  and  "  The  Drunkard's  Children  "  had 
lately  appeared  in  Birmingham,  and  had  been  known  to 
have  wrought  some  wonderful  effects  in  the  way  of  re- 
straining men  from  immoderate  use  of  drink. 

Moreover,  what  enchanting  journeys  those  were  !  The 
coming  on  to  the  platform  at  the  station,  where  Charles 
Dickens'  alert  form  and  beaming  look  met  one  with 
pleasurable  greeting ;  the  interest  and  polite  attention  of 
the  officials ;    the  being  always  seated   with   my  sister 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  315 

Emma  in  the  same  railway  carriage  occupied  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Charles  Dickens  and  Mark  Lemon  ;  the  delightful 
gaiety  and  sprightliness  of  our  manager's  talk  ;  the  end- 
less stories  he  told  us  ;  the  games  he  mentioned  and  ex- 
plained how  they  were  played  ;  the  bright  amenity  of  his 
manner  at  various  stations,  where  he  showed  to  persons 
in  authority  the  free-pass  ticket  which  had  been  pre- 
viously given  in  homage  to  "  Charles  Dickens  and  his 
party  ;"  the  courteous  alacrity  with  which  he  jumped  out 
at  one  refreshment-room  to  procure  food  for  somebody 
who  had  complained  of  hunger  towards  the  end  of  the 
journey,  and  reappeared  bearing  a  plate  of  buns  which 
no  one  seemed  inclined  to  eat,  but  which  he  held  out, 
saying,  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  somebody  eat  some  of 
these  buns  ;  I  was  in  hopes  I  saw  Miss  Novello  eye  them 
with  a  greedy  joy  :"  his  indefatigable  vivacity,  cheeriness, 
and  good  humour  from  morning  till  night,— all  were 
delightful.  One  of  the  stories  he  recounted  to  us,  while 
travelling,  was  that  of  a  man  who  had  been  told  that  slips 
of  paper  pasted  across  the  chest  formed  an  infallible  cure 
for  sea-sickness  ;  and  that  upon  going  down  into  the 
cabin  of  the  steamer,  this  man  was  to  be  seen  busily  em- 
ployed cutting  up  paper  into  long  narrow  strips  with  the 
gravest  of  facts,  and  accompanying  the  slicing  of  the 
scissors  by  a  sympathetic  movement  of  the  jaw,  which 
Dickens  mimicked  as  he  described  the  process. 

Before  the  month  of  June  concluded,  a  second  per- 
formance was  arranged  for  Birmingham  ;  and  as,  in  addi- 
tion to  "  Merry  Wives,"  and  "  Love,  Law,  and  Physic," 
it  was  proposed  to  give  the  screaming  afterpiece  of  "  Two 
o'clock  in  the  morning  "  (or  "  A  good  night's  rest,"  as 
it  was  sometimes  called),  Charles  Dickens  asked  me  to 
dine  at  his  house,  that  we  might  cut  the  farce  to  proper 


3i6      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

dimensions.  A  charming  little  dinner  of  four  it  was, — • 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dickens,  Mark  Lemon,  and  myself;  fol- 
lowed by  adjournment  to  the  library  to  go  through  our 
scenes  in  the  farce  together.  Charles  Dickens  showed 
to  particular  advantage  in  his  own  quiet  home  life  ;  and 
infinitely  more  I  enjoyed  this  simple  little  meeting  than 
a  brilliant  dinner-party  to  which  I  was  invited  at  his  house, 
a  day  or  two  afterwards,  when  a  large  company  were 
assembled,  and  all  was  in  superb  style,  with  a  bouquet  of 
flowers  beside  the  plate  of  each  lady  present.  On  one  of 
these  more  quiet  occasions,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dickens, 
their  children,  and  their  few  guests  were  sitting  out  of 
doors  in  the  small  garden  in  front  of  their  Devonshire 
Terrace  house,  enjoying  the  fine  warm  evening,  I  recollect 
seeing  one  of  his  little  sons  draw  Charles  Dickens  apart, 
and  stand  in  eager  talk  with  him,  the  setting  sun  full  upon 
the  child's  upturned  face  and  lighting  up  the  father's, 
which  looked  smilingly  down  into  it ;  and  when  the  im- 
portant conference  was  over,  the  father  returned  to  us, 
saying,  "  The  little  fellow  gave  me  so  many  excellent 
reasons  why  he  should  not  go  to  bed  so  soon,  that 
I  yielded  the  point,  and  let  him  sit  up  half  an  hour 
later." 

On  our  journey  down  to  Birmingham  I  enjoyed  a  very 
special  treat.  Charles  Dickens— in  his  usual  way  of 
sparing  no  pains  that  could  ensure  success—  asked  me  to 
hear  him  repeat  his  part  in  "  Two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing," which,  he  and  Mark  Lemon  being  the  only  two 
persons  acting  therein,  was  a  long  one.  He  repeated 
throughout  with  such  wonderful  verbal  accuracy  that  I 
could  scarcely  believe  what  I  saw  and  heard  as  I  listened 
to  him,  and  kept  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  page.  Not  only 
every  word  of  the  incessant  speaking  part,  but  the  stage 


CHARLES  DICKEiV^  AND  HIS  LEI  TERS.  3 1 7 

directions — which  in  that  piece  are  very  numerous  and 
elaborate — he  repeated  verbatim.  He  evidently  com- 
mitted to  memory  all  he  had  to  do  as  well  as  all  he 
had  to  say  in  this  extremely  comic  trifle  of  one  act 
an  one  scene.  Who  that  beheld  the  comoilsive 
writhes  and  spasmodic  draw-up  of  his  feet  on  the  rung  of 
the  chair  and  the  tightly-held  coverlet  round  his  shiver- 
ing body  just  out  of  bed,  as  he  watched  in  ecstasy  of 
impatience  the  invasion  of  his  peaceful  chamber  by  that 
horribly  intrusive  Stranger,  can  ever  forget  Charles 
Dickens'  playing  Mr.  Snobbington  ?  or  who  that  heard 
Mark  Lemon's  thundered  syllable,  "  Pours  !"  in  reply  to 
Snobbington's  inquiry  whether  it  rains,  can  lose  remem- 
brance of  that  unparalleled  piece  of  acting  ? 

July  brought  plans  for  performances  in  Scotland,  which 
was  to  include,  besides  our  previous  pieces,  the  come- 
dietta named  in  the  first  of  the  two  following  notelets  : — 

Devonshire  Terrace,  ist  July,  1848. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke,— I  enclose  the  part  I  spoke  of 
in   "  Used  Up."     Will  you  meet  the  rest  of  the  Dramatis 
Persona;  here,  to  read  the  play  and  compare  the  parts  on 
Monday  evening  at  7. 

Faithfully  yours  always, 

The  Implacable  Manager. 

[The  next  (undated)  was  in  very  large  handwriting.] 

The  Implacable's  reply. 

At  Miss  Kelly's  Temple  of  Mirth,  73,  Dean  Street,  Soho — 
at  7  o'clock,  on  Friday  evening,  July  the  seventh,  eighteen 
hundred  and  forty-eight. 

On  the  15th  July  we  travelled  to  Edinburgh;  and, 
on  our  post-midnight  arrival  there,  found  a  brilliant 
supper-party  awaiting  us  of  several  distinguished  gentle- 


31 8      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

men,  among  whom  was  the  Sheriff  of  Midlothian,  bright 
super-genial  John  T.  Gordon,  and  a  gentleman  who 
sang  Burns'  "  Mary  Morrison "  with  such  exquisite 
tenderness  of  expression  that  Charles  Dickens  (who  had 
often  laughingly  observed  to  me  that  I  did  not  seem 
much  to  admire  this  kind  of  pastime)  at  its  conclusion 
turned  to  me  with  eyes  that  swam  as  brimmingly  as  my 
own,  and  said,  "Why,  I  thought  you  didn't  care  for 
after-supper  singing,  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke."  All  I  could 
find  words  for  in  reply  was,  "  Ay  ;  but  such  suiging  as 
this — ."  To  which  expressive  break  he  nodded  an 
emphatic  rejoinder  of  assent. 

The  day  that  followed  was  spent  by  some  of  the 
Amateur  Company  in  visiting  Holyrood,  etc.  ;  while 
Charles  Dickens  invited  me  to  go  with  Mrs.  Dickens, 
himself,  and  one  or  two  others,  to  see  esteemed  John 
Hunter  ("  friend  of  Leigh  Hunt's  verse  ")  at  Craigcrook. 
To  my  infinite  regret  I  was  compelled  by  one  of  my 
cruellest  habitual  head-aches  to  relinquish  this  surpass- 
ing pleasure,  and  remain  at  the  hotel,  trying  to  nurse  my- 
self into  fit  condition  for  acting  on  the  morrow.  By 
that  same  evening,  however,  1  was  well  enough  to  join 
the  merry  after-dinner  party  engaged  with  Charles  Dickens 
in  playing  a  game  of  "  How,  when,  and  where ;"  which 
he  conducted  with  the  greatest  spirit  and  gaiety.  I  re- 
member one  of  the  words  chosen  for  guessing  was 
"  Lemon  ;"  and  of  course,  many  were  the  allusions  to 
punch  and  Punch  made  by  the  several  players.  But 
when  one  of  them  ventured  in  answer  to  the  question, 
"  How  do  you  like  it  ?  "  so  near  as  to  say,  "  I  like  it 
with  a  white  choker  on,"  Dickens  ejaculated,  "Madness!" 
and  Mark  Lemon,  who  chanced  to  be  the  only  gentle- 
man  present   wearing  a   white   cravat,   put   his   spread 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  319 

hand  stealthily  up  under  his  chin,  and  made  an  irre- 
sistibly droll  grimace  of  dismay.  On  the  17th  July  we 
gave  in  Edinburgh  "  Merry  Wives,"  "  Love,  Law,  and 
Physic,"  and  "  Two  o'clock  in  the  morning  ; "  and  on 
the  1 8th,  in  Glasgow,  "Merry  Wives,"  and  "Animal 
Magnetism."  As  there  was  to  be  a  second  performance 
given  in  Glasgow  on  the  20th,  Charles  Dickens  organ- 
ized a  charming  excursion  to  Ben  Lomond  on  the 
intervening  day,  the  19th.  No  man  more  embodied  the 
expression  "genial"  than  himself;  no  man  could  better 
make  "  a  party  of  pleasure  "  truly  pleasant  and  worthy 
of  its  name  than  he.  There  was  a  positive  sparkle 
and  atmosphere  of  holiday  sunshine  about  him :  he 
seemed  to  radiate  brightness  and  enjoyment  from  his 
own  centre  that  cast  lustre  upon  all  around  him.  When 
the  carriages-and-four  that  he  had  ordered  for  the  expe- 
dition were  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  Glasgow  hotel, 
ready  for  us  to  take  our  places  in  and  on  them  (for 
some  of  the  gentlemen  occupied  the  box-seats,  as  there 
were  postillions),  we  saw  from  the  windows  that  a  large 
crowd  had  assembled  in  the  streets  and  was  every  moment 
increasing  in  numbers.  Charles  Dickens  said  hastily, 
"  I  don't  think  I  can  face  this  ;"  and  bidding  us  go  on 
without  them  and  take  them  up  a  little  distance,  he  took 
Charles  Knight's  arm,  that  he  might  walk  out  unobserved 
and  pass  through  the  crowd  on  foot.  Charles  Knight 
had  joined  our  party  for  a  few  days ;  and  he  afterwards 
told  us  that  on  emerging  from  the  house  a  lady  had 
come  up  to  him  and  said,  "  Could  you  tell  me,  sir, 
which  is  Charles  Dickens?"  Upon  which  Charles  Knight 
• — faithful  to  Dickens'  wish  to  pass  on  unnoticed — re- 
plied, "No,  ma'am;  unfortunately  I  couldn't."  Though 
Charles  Dickens  gave  him  an  expressive  pinch  of  the 


320       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

arm,  as  he  uttered  the  ~eply,  in  token  that  he  recognized 
his  loyalty  to  friendsh-.p,  yet,  when  Charles  Knight  told 
us  the  incident,  Charles  Dickens  laughingly  said,  "  I 
don't  know  how  you  could  have  the  heart  to  answer  her 
so,  Knight,  I  don't  think  /  could  have  done  it  !  " 

The  day,  that  had  promised  fair,  turned  out  drizzly  and 
misty;  so  that  as  we  passed  the  picturesque  neighbourhood 
of  Dumbarton,  its  castle,  and  banks  of  the  Clyde,  they 
were  but  hazily  seen  ;  and  even  when  we  approached  the 
grander  scenery  of  Lake  Lomond  and  the  mighty  "Ben" 
of  that  ilk,  it  was  but  greyly  and  s'rroudedly  visible.  I 
recollect  Augustus  Egg,  who  was  in  our  carriage,  as  he 
looked  towards  the  hill-sides  covered  with  July  fir-trees 
dripping  wet,  saying  with  a  true  Londoner's  travestie  of 
the  often-seen  placard  in  a  Regent  Street  furrier's  shop- 
window.  Firs  at  this  season,  half  price."  We  put 
up  at  a  small  inn  at  mid-day,  where  we  had  a  lunch- 
dinner  ;  after  which  some  of  the  company  went  down  to 
the  shores  of  the  lake  (the  rain  having  somewhat  ceased) 
to  try  and  get  a  glimpse  of  the  magnificent  vicinity.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Charles  Dickens  and  I  preferred  remaining 
where  we  were  ;  and,  as  he  owned  to  being  a  little  tired, 
we  persuaded  him  to  lie  down  for  a  short  time.  In  that 
small  inn-room  there  was  of  course  no  sofa ;  so  we  put 
together  four  or  five  chairs,  on  which  he  stretched  him- 
self at  full  length,  resting  his  head  on  his  wife's  knee  as  a 
pillow,  and  was  soon  in  quiet  sleep,  Mrs.  Dickens  and  I 
keeping  on  our  talk  in  a  low  tone  that  served  rather  to 
lull  than  disturb  him.  That  modest  inn-room  among 
the  Scottish  mountains,  the  casement  blurred  by  recent 
rains,  the  grand  landscape  beyond  shrouded  in  mist,  the 
soft  breathing  of  the  sleeper,  the  glorious  eyes  closed, 
the  active  spirit  in  perfect  repose,  the  murmured  voices  of 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  321 

the    two   watching   women, — often   rise   with    strangely- 
present  effect  upon  my  musing  memory. 

When  the  time  came  for  returning  to  Glasgow,  Charles 
Dickens  talked  of  occupying  one  of  the  box-seats  ;  but  I 
ventured  to  remind  him  he  might  take  cold.  "  Oh,  I'm 
well  wrapped  up,"  he  replied.  I  said  it  was  not  so  much 
a  question  of  warm  clothing,  as  that  he  could  not  help 
inhaling  the  damp  air,  and  might  lose  his  voice  for  the 
morrow's  acting.  He  was  not  the  man  to  imperil  suc- 
cess by  any  want  of  precaution,  so  he  laughingly  gave 
way  and  came  inside  the  carriage  again. 

That  same  night,  at  supper,  occurred  an  instance  of 
one  of  those  humorous  exaggerations  of  speech  in  which 
Charles  Dickens  delighted  and  often  indulged.  There 
was  before  him  a  cold  sirloin,  and  he  offered  me  a  slice. 
I  accepted,  and  he  exclaimed,  "  Well,  I  think  I  was 
never  more  astonished  in  my  life  than  at  your  saying  you 
would  have  some  of  this  cold  roast  beef !  " 

During  our  tours  he  always  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table  and  carved,  I  having  ihe  enviable  privilege  of  be- 
ing seated  next  to  him  ;  and  he  observing  [as  what  was 
there  that  ever  escaped  his  notice  ?]  that  I  ate  little — 
owing  to  the  perpetual  state  of  glad  excitement  in  which 
I  lived — used  to  cater  for  me  kindly  and  persuasively, 
tempting  my  appetite  by  selecting  morsels  he  thought  I 
should  like.  On  one  occasion  I  recollect  he  helped  me 
to  a  piece  of  chicken,  which  1  took,  hailing  it  in  Captain 
Cuttle's  words  :  "  Liver  wing  it  is  !"  and  he  instantly 
looked  at  me  with  that  bright  glance  of  his.  He  had  a 
peculiar  grace  in  taking  any  sudden  allusion  of  this  kind 
to  his  writings  ',  and  I  remember  Leigh  Hunt  telling  me 
that  once  when  he  and  Dickens  were  coming  away  from 
a  party  on  a  very  rainy  night,  a  cab  not  being  readily 


322      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

procurable  to  convey  Leigh  Hunt  home,  Charles  Dickens 
had  made  him  get  inside  the  fly  he  had  in  waiting  for  him- 
self and  the  ladies  who  were  with  him,  taking  his  own 
seat  outside  ;  upon  which  Leigh  Hunt  put  his  head  out 
to  protest,  saying,  "  If  you  don't  mind,  Dickens,  you'll 
'■become  a  denid,  damp,  moist,  tmpleasa7it  body/'"  which 
was  responded  to  by  a  blithe,  clear  laugh  that  rang  out 
right  pleasantly  in  the  dark  wet  night. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  morning  at  Glasgow 
requests  were  made  that  the  Amateur  Company  would 
sign  their  names  collectively  on  some  large  sheets  of  paper 
produced  for  this  purpose,  as  interesting  memorials  of  the 
occasion;  and  the  persons  then  chancing  to  be  present 
complied.  One  of  these  sheets,  filled  for  my  sister  Emma, 
she  subsequently  gave  to  me,  and  it  is  still  in  my 
possession, 

The  performance  of  "  Used  up  " — thanks  to  diligent 
rehearsals  steadily  enforced  by  our  "  Implacable  manager," 
— went  with  such  extraordinary  smoothness  as  to  call 
forth  an  expression  of  astonishment  from  the  professional 
manager  of  the  Glasgow  Theatre,  who  said  that  unless  he 
had  been  positively  assured  the  Amateur  Company  had 
never  before  played  the  piece,  he  could  not  have  believed 
it  to  have  been  a  first  night's  acting.  Charles  Dickens's  Sir 
Charles  Coldstream  was  excellent;  but  a  pre-eminent  hit 
was  made  by  Mark  Lemon,  who,  as  one  of  his  fop-friends, 
invented  a  certain  little  ridiculous  laugh  —  so  original,  so 
exquisitely  inane,  so  ludicrously  disproportioned  in  its 
high  falsetto  pipe,  to  the  immensely  broad  chest  from 
which  it  issued — that  it  became  t/ie  thing  of  all  the  scenes 
where  he  appeared.  A  kind  of  squeaking  hysterical  giggle 
closing  in  a  suddenly  checked  gasp, — a  high-pitched 
chuckle,  terminating  in  an  abrupt  swallowing  of  the  tone 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  323 

—first  startled  our  ears  and  our  risibility  when  Lemon 
was  rehearsing  this  small  part,  which  he  made  an  impor- 
tant one  by  this  invention;  and  a  dozen  times  a  day, 
until  the  night  of  performance,  would  Charles  Dickens 
make  Mark  Lemon  repeat  this  incomparably  droll  new 
laugh.  I  have  said  how  fond  Charles  Dickens  was  of  a 
repeated  jest:  and  at  this  time  not  only  would  he  never 
tire  of  hearing  "  Lemon's  fopling-laugh,"  but  he  had  a 
way  of  suddenly  calling  out  to  Augustus  Egg  during 
dinner  or  supper,  "  Augustus  !  "  and  wh'en  he  looked  up 
would  exclaim  with  a  half-serious,  half-playful  affection- 
ateness,  "  God  bless  you,  Augustus  I  "  He  was  very 
fond  of  both  those  friends:  and  they  loved  to  humour 
his  whimsical  fancies  and  frolics.  I  recollect  on  one 
occasion  after  dinner  at  one  of  the  hotels  during  our 
tour— on  a  non-acting  night— finding  that  the  evening 
seemed  threatening  to  become  less  lively  than  he  liked  it 
to  be,  and  hearing  that  Mark  Lemon  had  retired  early, 
Charles  Dickens  went  up  to  Lemon's  room,  made  him 
promise  to  get  up  and  come  downstairs  again;  and  I 
shall  not  readily  forget  his  look  of  triumphant  joy  when 
soon  after,  the  drawing  door  opened  and  Mark  Lemon 
made  his  appearance,  walking  forward  in  his  flannel 
dressing-gown,  holding  a  candle  in  each  hand  on  either 
side  of  his  grotesquely  drawn-down  visage,  as  if  to  show 
that  he  had  come  down  stairs  in  spite  ol  illness  to  please 
his  *'  Implacable  manager."  Well  might  a  grave  Scotch 
gentleman — who  called  upon  us  during  our  stay  in 
Edinburgh,  and  saw  something  of  the  high  spirits  and  good 
humour  in  which  Charles  Dickens  and  his  company  were 
— say,  as  he  did,  "I  never  saw  anything  like  those 
clever  men;  they're  just  for  all  the  world  like  a  parcel  of 
school-boys    ' 

Y 


324      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

On  our  last  night  at  Glasgow,  after  a  climax  of  success- 
ful performance  at  the  theatre, — the  pieces  being  "  Used 
up,"  "  Love,  Law,  and  Physic,"  and  "  Two  o'clock  in 
the  morning," — we  had  a  champagne  supper  in  honour  of 
its  being  the  Amateur  Company's  last  assemblage  together. 
Charles  Dickens,  observing  that  I  took  no  wine,  said, 
"  Do  as  I  do :  have  a  little  champagne  put  into  your  glass 
and  fill  it  up  with  water  ;  you'll  find  it  a  refreshing 
draught.  I  tell  you  this  as  a  useful  secret  for  keeping 
cool  on  such  festive  occasions,  and  speak  to  you  as  man  to 
many  He  was  in  wildest  spirits  at  the  brilliant  reception 
and  uproarious  enthusiasm  of  the  audience  that  evening, 
and  said  in  his  mad-cap  mood,  "Blow  Domestic 
Hearth  !  I  should  like  to  be  going  on  all  over  the  king- 
dom, with  INIark  Lemon,  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,  and  John 
[his  manservant],  and  acting  everywhere.  There's  nothing 
in  the  world  equal  to  seeing  the  house  rise  at  you,  one 
sea  of  delighted  faces,  one  hurrah  of  applause  !  " 

We  travelled  up  to  town  next  day:  he  showing  us  how 
to  play  the  game  of  "  Twenty  Questions,"  and  interesting 
me  much  by  the  extreme  ingenuity  of  those  he  put  to  us 
with  a  view  of  eliciting  the  object  of  our  thought.  He 
was  very  expert  at  these  pastimes,  and  liked  to  set  them 
going.  I  remember  one  evening  at  bis  own  house,  his 
playing  several  games  of  apparently  magical  divination, — 
of  course,  by  means  of  accomplices  and  preconcerted 
signals.  Once,  while  he  was  explaining  to  Augustus  Egg 
and  myself  the  mode  of  procedure  in  a  certain  game  of 
guessing,  he  said,  "  Well,  1  begin  by  thinking  of  a  man, 
a  woman,  or  an  inanimate  object;  and  we'll  suppose  that 
I  think  of  Egg."  "Ay,  an  inanimate  object,"  I  replied. 
He  gave  his  usual  quick  glance  up  at  me,  and  looked  at 
Augustus  Egg,  and  then  we  all  three  laughed,  though  I  pro- 
tested— w   h  trij'ji — my  innocence  of  any  intended  quip. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  3  2 5 

During  our  journey  homeward  from  Glasgow,  Charles 
Dickens  exerted  himself  to  make  us  all  as  cheery  as  might 
Ije,  insensibly  communicating  the  effect  of  his  own  anima- 
tion to  those  around  him.  My  sister  Emma  having 
produced  from  her  pocket  a  needle  and  thread,  scissors, 
and  thimble,  when  somebody's  glove  needed  a  few  stitches, 
and  subsequently  a  pen-knife,  when  somebody  else's 
pencil  wanted  fresh  pointing, — Mark  Lemon  laughingly 
said,  "  It's  my  opinion  that  if  either  of  us  chanced  to 
require  a  pair  of  Wellington  boots,  Miss  Novello  would 
be  able  to  bring  them  out  from  among  those  wonderful 
flounces  of  hers." 

We  were  very  merry  together ;  but  beneath  all  I  could 
not  help  feeling  saddened  by  the  sorrowful  consciousness 
that  this  most  unique  and  delightful  comradeship — which 
I  had  enjoyed  with  the  keenest  sense  of  its  completeness 
and  singularly  exceptional  combination  of  happy  circum- 
stances— was  drawing  to  a  close. 

However,  I  soon  had  the  comfort  to  receive  the  follow- 
ing sportively-expressed  but  truly  sympathetic  letter, 
which  at  least  showed  me  my  regret  was  feelingly 
shared  : — 

Devonshire  Terrace,  Monday  Evening, 
22nd  July,  1848. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  have  no  energy  whatever,  I 
am  very  miserable.  I  loathe  domestic  hearths.  I  yearn  to 
be  a  vagabond.  Why  can't  I  marry  '  Mary  .''  Why  have  I 
seven  children — not  engaged  at  sixpence  a-night  a-piece,  and 
dismissible  for  ever,  if  they  tumble  down,  not  taken  on 
for  an  indefinite  time  at  a  vast  expense,  and  never, — no 
never,  never, — wearing  lighted  candles  round  their  hcids  ' 
I  am  deeply  miserable,     A  real  house  like  this  is  insupport- 

•  A  character  in  "  Used  Up." 

•  As  fairies  in  "  Merry  Wives." 


326      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

able,  after  that  canvas  farm  wherein  I  was  so  happy.  What 
is  a  humdrum  dinner  at  half-past  five,  with  nobody  (but 
John)  to  see  me  eat  it,  compared  with  that  soup,  and  the 
hundreds  of  pairs  of  eyes  that  watched  its  disappearance  ? 
Forgive  this  tear.^     It  is  weak  and  foolish,  I  know. 

Pray  let  me  divide  the  little  excursional  excesses  of  the 
journey  among  the  gentlemen,  as  I  have  always  done  before, 
and  pray  believe  that  I  have  had  the  sincerest  pleasure  and 
gratihcation  in  your  co-operation  and  society,  valuable  and 
interesting  on  all  public  accounts,  and  personally  of  no  mean 
worth  nor  held  in  slight  regard. 

You  had  a  sister  once,  when  we  were  young  and  happy — 
I  think  they  called  her  Emma.  If  she  remember  a  bright 
being  who  once  flitted  like  a  vision  before  her,  entreat  her  to 
bestow  a  thought  upon  the  "  Gas"  of  departed  joys.  I  can 
write  no  more. 

Y.  G."  the  (darkened)  G.  L.  R.* 

The  same  kindly  sympathy  of  regret  for  past  dramatic 
joys  is  still  betokened  in  the  following  close  to  a  letter 
(quoting  Sir  Charles  Coldstream's  words)  which  I  received 
from  my  dear  "  Implacable  manager,"  dated  "  Broad- 
stairs,  Kent,  5th  Aug.,  1848  :" — 

"  I  am  completely  ^/rt:j-e— literally  used  up.  I  am  dying  for 
excitement.  Is  it  possible  that  nobody  can  suggest  anything  to 
make  my  heart  beat  violently,  my  hair  stand  on  end— but  no!" 

"Where  did  I  hear  those  words  (so  truly  applicable  to  my 
forlorn  condition)  pronounced  by  some  delightful  creature  t 
In  a  previous  state  of  existence,  I  believe. 

Oh,  Memory,  Memory  1 

Ever  yours  faithfully, 

Y— no  C.  G — no  D.  C.  D.  I  think  it  is-  but  I  don't  know 
— there's  nothing  in  it. 


^  A  huge  blot  of  smeared  ink 
*  "  Young  Gas."  •)  Name; 
«  "  Gas-Light  Boy."  j         self. 


*  "  Young  Gas."         ")  Names  he  had  playfully  given  him- 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS,   327 

My  sister  Emma  having  helped  me  with  the  designs  for 
a  blotting-case  I  embroidered  for  Charles  Dickens,  he  sent 
us  the  accompanying  sprightly  letter  of  acknowledgment, 
signing  it  with  the  various  names  of  parts  he  had  played, 
written  in  the  most  respectively  characteristic  hand- 
writings. These  names  in  gold  letters  upon  green 
morocco  leather,  formed  the  corners  to  the  green  watered 
silk  covering  in  which  I  had  had  the  blotting-book  bound  ; 
the  centres  having  on  one  side  a  wreath  of  heartsease  and 
forget-me-nots  surrounding  the  initials  "  Y.  G.  ;"  on  the 
other,  a  group  of  roses  and  rose-buds,  worked  in  floss 
silks  of  natural  colours. 

During  the  next  year  my  husband  and  I  received  the 
two  ensuing  playful  notes  : — 

Devonshire  Terrace, 

13th  Jan.  1849. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  am  afraid  that  Young  Gas 
is  for  ever  dimmed,  and  that  the  breath  of  calumny  will  blow 
henceforth  on  his  stage-management,  by  reason  of  his 
enormous  delay  in  returning  you  the  two  pounds  non-for- 
warded by  Mrs.  G.  The  proposed  deduction  on  account  of 
which  you  sent  it,  was  never  made. 

But  had  you  seen  him  in  "  Used  up," 
His  eye  so  beaming  and  so  clear, 
When  on  his  stool  he  sat  to  sup 
The  oxtail— little  Romer  near, 
etc.  etc. 
You  would  have  forgotten  and  forgiven  all. 
Ever  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

To  C.  C.  C. 

Devonshire  Terrace, 

5th  May,  1849. 
My  dear  Sir, — I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  my  Orphan 
Working-school  vote  is  promised  in  behalf  of  an  unfortunate 


328      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

young  orphan  who  after  being  canvassed  for,  polled  for, 
written  for,  quarreled  for,  fought  for,  called  for,  and  done  all 
kind  of  things'for,  by  ladies  who  wouldn't  go  away  and 
wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  anything  anybody  said  or  did  for 
them,  was  floored  at  the  last  election  and  comes  up  to  the 
scratch  next  morning,  for  the  next  election,  fresher  than  ever. 
I  devoutly  hope  he  may  get  in,  and  be  lost  sight  of  for 
evermore. 

Pray  give  my  kindest  regards  to  my  quondam  Quickly,  and 
believe  me 

Faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

Another  year  came  round,  and  still  brought  me 
delightfully  sympathetic  reminiscences  of  our  happy 
bygone  comradeship  in  acting,  as  testified  by  the  follow- 
ing letter.  The  "  new  comedy  "  it  alluded  to  was  Bulwer 
Lytton's  "  Not  so  bad  as  we  seem;"  and  the  "  book"  was 
the  story  called  "  Meg  and  Alice,  the  Merry  Maids  of 
Windsor  "  (one  of  the  series  in  "  The  Girlhood  of  Shake- 
speare's Heroines";,  which  I  dedicated  to  Charles 
Dickens. 

Great  Malvern,  29th  March,  185 1. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke, — Ah,  those  were  days 
indeed,  when  we  were  so  fatigued  at  dinner  that  we  couldn't 
speak,  and  so  revived  at  supper  that  we  couldn't  go  to  bed  : 
when  wild  in  inns  the  noble  savage  ran, — and  all  the  world 
was  a  stage  gas-lighted  in  a  double  sense, — by  the  Young 
Gas  and  the  old  one  !  When  Emmeline  Montague  (now 
Compton,  and  the  mother  of  two  children)  came  to  rehearse 
in  our  new  comedy  the  other  night,  I  nearly  fainted.  The 
gush  of  recollection  was  so  overpowering  that  I  couldn't 
bear  it. 

I  use  the  portfolio*  for  managerial  papers  still.  That's 
something. 

•  The  Blotting-book  previously  mentioned. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  329 

But  all  this  does  not  thank  you  for  your  book.  I  have  not 
got  it  yet  (being  here  with  Mrs.  Dickens,  who  has  been  very 
unwell)  but  I  shall  be  in  town  early  in  the  week,  and  shall 
bring  it  down  to  read  quietly  on  these  hills,  where  the  wind 
blows  as  freshly  as  if  there  were  no  Popes  and  no  Cardinals 
whatsoever — nothing  the  matter  anywhere.  I  thank  you  a 
thousand  times,  beforehand,  for  the  pleasure  you  are  going 
to  give  me.  I  am  full  of  faith.  Your  sister  Emma, — she  is 
doing  work  of  some  sort  on  the  P.S.  side  of  the  boxes,  in 
some  dark  theatre,  /  k/iow, — but  where  I  wonder  ?  W.?  has 
not  proposed  to  her  yet,  has  he .?  I  understood  he  was 
going  to  offer  his  hand  and  heart,  and  lay  his  leg  ^  at  her 
feet.  Ever  faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

The  following  note  was  the  invitation  I  received  to  the 
dress  rehearsal  of  "  Not  so  bad  as  we  seem  :" — 

Devonshire  House,  7th  May,  185 1. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — Will   you  come  and  look  at 
your  old  friends  next  Monday  ?     I  do  not  know  how  far  we 
shall  be  advanced  towards  completion,  but  I  do  know  that 
we  shall  all  be  truly  pleased  to  see  you. 

Faithfully  yours  always, 
Charles  Dickens. 

Some  account  of  the  rehearsals  and  performances  on 
this  occasion  was  given  by  i»Ir.  R.  H.  Home  in  the 
"Gentleman's  Magazine  "  for  February,  187 1,  therefore 
I  forbear  from  giving  particulars  farther  than  to  record 
my  own  confirmation  of  the  description  there  given  of 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  exquisite  courtesy,  with  as 
exquisite  a  simplicity  in  demeanour  towards  those  who 
were  then  assembled  beneath  his  princely  roof.     He  was 

1  Wilmot,  the  clever  veteran   prompter,  who  had  been 
engaged  to  accompany  us  on  all  our  acting-tours. 
*  A  wooden  one. 


330      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

truly  worthy  of  his  title,  "  Your  Grace.''''  Nothing  more 
graceful  and  gracious  could  be  imagined  than  his  mode 
of  standing  by  Leigh  Hunt  (who  sat  beside  me),  making 
him  keep  his  seat  while  he  stayed  for  a  few  moments  in 
easy  talk  with  him  before  the  curtain  drew  up  ;  or  his 
behaviour  afterwards  in  the  supper-room,  where  long 
tables  of  refreshments  were  ranged  near  to  the  walls,  with 
the  Duke's  livery  servants  in  attendance  at  the  back,  to 
dispense  what  the  guests  needed.  The  Duke,  perceiving 
that  two  ladies  were  standing  a  little  apart  with  no 
gentleman  in  their  company,  made  a  courteous  motion 
of  his  hand  towards  Emma  and  myself,  that  we  should 
advance  towards  the  table,  while  he  waved  his  nieces  a 
little  aside  to  make  room  for  us  at  the  board,  where  tea, 
coffee,  and  a  thousand  delicacies  were  spread. 

The  following  charming  note  came  to  me  in  recognition 
of  a  large  basket  of  choice  flowers — sent  to  me  by  the 
same  friendly  hand  that  had  provided  those  that  greeted 
our  arrival  in  Manchester — which  I  had  taken  to  Charles 
Dickens's  house  on  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the  first 
number  of  his  "  Bleak  House  "  was  published  : — 

Tavistock  House.  3rd  March,  1852. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — It  is  ahnost  an  impertinence 
to  tell  you  how  delightful  your  flowers  were  to  nie  ;  for  you 
who  thought  of  that  beautiful  and  delicately-timed  token  of 
sympathy  and  remembrance,  must  know  it  very  well 
already. 

I  do  assure  you  that  I  have  hardly  ever  received  anything 
with  so  much  pleasure  in  all  my  life.  They  are  not  faded 
yet — are  on  my  table  here — but  never  can  fade  ojt  of  my 
remembrance. 

I  should  be  less  than  a  Young  Gas,  and  more  than  an  old 
Manager — that  commemorative  portfolio  is  here  too — if  I 
could  relieve  my  heart  of  half  that  it  could  say  to  you.     All 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  33 1 

my  house  are  my  witnesses  that  you  have  quite  filled  it,  and 
this  note  is  my  witness  that  I  can  not  empty  it ! 

Ever  faithfully  and  gratefully  your  friend, 

Charles  Dickens. 

I  had  written  to  inquire  who  was  the  author  of  the 
beautiful  poem-story  that  appeared  in  the  Christmas 
number  of  "Household  Words  "  for  1852,  and  he  sent 
me  this  note  in  reply.  "The  two  green  leaves  "  was  the 
name  he  had  given  to  the  green  paper  covers  in  which 
the  monthly  parts  of  his  own  serial  works  appeared  ;  and 
"  the  turning-point  "  he  here  alludes  to  was  the  one  in 
"  Bleak  House,"  where  Esther  takes  the  fever  from 
Charley  and  loses  her  former  beauty. 

Tavistock  House,  Tuesday  Evening-, 
28th  Dec,  1852. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — This  comes  from  your  ancient 
(and   venerable)   manager,  in  solemn  state,  to    decide  the 
wager. 

The  Host's  story  is  by  Edmund  Oilier — an  excellent  and 
true  young  poet,  as  I  think. 

You  will  see  a  turning-point  in  the  two  green  leaves  this 
next  month,  which  I  hope  will  not  cause  you  to  think  less 
pleasantly  and  kindly  of  them. 

And  so  no  more  at  present  from  yours 

Always  very  faithfully, 
Charles  Dickens. 

The  next  note  accompanied  a  presentation  copy  of 
"  Bleak  House,"  on  the  title-page  of  which  he  wrote, 
"  Mary  Cowden  Clarke,  with  the  regard  of  Charles 
Dickens,  December,  1853."  The  book  is  still  treasured 
in  both  places  where  he  wished  it  might  be  kept. 

Tavistock  House,  14th  Nov.  1853. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke, — ^You  remember  the 
flowers  you  sent  me  on  the  day  of  the  publication  of  the  first 
of  these  pages  ?    /  shall  never  forget  them. 


332       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

Pray  give  the  book  a  place  on  your  shelves,  and  (if  you  can) 
in  your  heart.     Where  you  may  always  believe  me 

Very  faithfully  yours, 
Charles  Dickens. 

In  the  summer  of  1855  my  husband  and  I  received  an 
invitation  to  witness  the  performance  of  Mr.  Wilkie 
CoUins's  piece  called  "  The  Lighthouse,"  and  of  Charles 
Dickens's  and  Mark  Lemon's  force  entitled  "  Mr. 
Nightingale's  Diary."  The  play. bill  — which,  as  I  write, 
lies  before  me — is  headed,  "The  smallest  Theatre  in  the 
World  1  Tavistock  House"  (where  Dickens  then  resided); 
and  is  dated  "Tuesday  Evening,  June  19th,  1855.'' 
The  chief  characters  were  enacted  by  himself,  some 
members  of  his  own  family,  and  his  friends,  Mark  Lemon, 
Augustus  Egg,  Frank  Stone,  and  Wilkie  Collins ;  while 
the  scenery  was  painted  by  another  of  his  friends,  the 
eminent  Clarkson  Stanfield.  Choicely  picturesque  and 
full  of  artistic  taste  was  the  effect  of  the  lighthouse  interior, 
where  Mark  Lemon's  handsomely  chiselled  features,  sur- 
rounded by  a  head  of  grizzled  hair  that  looked  as  though  it 
had  been  blown  into  careless  dishevelment  by  many  a 
tempestuous  gale,  his  weather-beaten  general  appearance, 
and  his  rugged  mariner  garments,  formed  the  fine  central 
figure  as  the  curtain  drew  up  and  discovered  him  seated 
at  a  rough  table,  with  his  younger  lighthouse  mate, 
Wilkie  Collins,  stretched  on  the  floor  as  if  just  awakened 
from  sleep,  in  talk  together  Later  on  in  the  scene  a  low 
planked  recess  in  the  wall  is  opened,  where  Charles 
Dickens—  as  the  first  lighthouse  keeper,  an  old  man  with 
half-dazed  wits  and  a  bewildered  sense  of  some  wrono: 
committed  in  bygone  yea"s— is  discovered  asleep  in  his 
berth.  A  wonderful  impersonation  was  this ;  very 
imaginative,  very  original,  very  wild,  very  striking ;    his 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  333 

grandly  intelligent  eyes  were  made  to  assume  a  wander- 
ing look, — a  sad,  scared,  lost  gaze,  as  of  one  whose 
spirit  was  away  from  present  objects,  and  wholly  occupied 
with  absent  and  long-past  images. 

Among  the  audience  that  evening  was  Douglas  Jerrold, 
beside  whom  we  sat. 

Towards  the  end  of  this  same  year  it  was  announced 
that  another  new  serial  story — "  Little  Dorrit" — would 
make  its  appearance  on  the  ist  December  :  and  in  anti- 
cipation of  the  event,  I  designed  a  white  porcelain  paper- 
weight, with  "  two  green  leaves"  enamelled  in  their  natural 
colours  upon  it,  between  which  were  placed,  in  gold 
letters,  the  initials  "  C.  D."  The  fabrication  of  this 
paper-weight  I  entrusted  to  the  clever  house  of  Osier  at 
Birmingham,  famous  for  their  beautiful  glass  and  china 
manufactory,  and  known  to  ourselves  for  much  kindness 
and  courtesy  in  old  lecturing  days.  This  trille  they 
executed  with  great  taste  and  skill,  carrying  out  my  idea 
to  perfection.  It  was  sent  to  Charles  Dickens  on  the 
day  of  publication,  and  brought  us  the  following  kind 
letter. 

Tavistock  House,  19th  Dec.  1855. 
My  dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clarke.— I  cannot  tell  you 
how  much  I  am  gratified  by  the  receipt  of  your  kind  letters, 
and  the  pleasantest  memorial  that  has  ever  been  given  me  to 
stand  upon  my  writing-desk.  Running  over  from  Paris  on 
Saturday  night,  I  found  your  genial  remembrance  awaiting 
me,  like  a  couple  of  kind  homely  faces  (homely  please  to 
observe,  in  the  sense  of  being  associated  with  Home)  ;  and  I 
think  you  would  ha\e  been  satisfied  if  you  cculd  have  seen 
how  you  brightened  my  face. 

Always  faithfully  your  friend, 

Charles  Dickens. 

Among  the  many  regrets  for  what  we  left  behind  us  in 


334       RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

our  beloved  old  England,  on  going  to  settle  at  Nice  in  the 
Autumn  of  1856,  was  that  we  just  missed  being  present 
at  the  next  Tavistock  House  performance,  which  con- 
sisted of  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins's  drama,  ''  The  Frozen  Deep  " 
and  the  farce  of  "  Animal  Magnetism." 

The  best  consolation  we  could  have  had  for  our  disap- 
pointment was  the  receipt  of  the  following  letter,  giving 
evidence  that  we  had  friendliest  sympathy  in  our  keen 
sense  of  lost  pleasure. 

Tavistock  House,  loth  Oct   1856. 

My  dear  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clarke,— An  hour  before  I 
received  your  letter,  I  had  been  writing  your  names.  We 
were  beginning  a  list  of  friends  to  be  asked  here  on  Twelfth 
Night  to  see  a  new  play  by  the  Author  of  "The  Lighthouse," 
and  a  better  play  than  that.  I  honestly  assure  you  that 
your  letter  dashed  my  spirits  and  made  a  blank  in  the 
prospect. 

May  you  be  very  happy  at  Nice,  and  find  in  the  climate 
and  the  beautiful  country  near  it,  more  than  compensation 
for  what  you  leave  here.  Don't  forget  among  the  leaves  of 
the  vine  and  olive,  that  your  two  green  leaves  are  always  on 
my  table  here,  and  that  no  weather  will  shake  them  off. 

I  should  have  brought  this  myself,  on  the  chance  of  seeing 
you,  if  I  were  not  such  a  coward  in  the  matter  of  good-bye,  that 
I  never  say  it,  and  would  resort  to  almost  any  subterfuge  to 
avoid  it. 

Mrs.  Dickens  and  Georgina  send  their  kindest  regards. 
Your  hearty  sympathy  will  not  be  lost  to  me,  I  hope,  at 
Nice  ;  and  I  shall  never  hear  of  you  or  think  of  you  without 
true  interest  and  pleasure.     Always  faithfully  your  friend, 

Charles  Dickens. 

"  The  Story"  alluded  to  in  the  next  letter  was  "  A  Tale 
of  Two  Cities ;"  and  the  promised  copy,  when  it  could 
**  be  read  all  at  once,"  faithfully  came  to  us.  "  The  by- 
gone Day"  1,0  which  he  refers,  was  not  at  "Glasgow," 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  335 

but  at  Birmingham  ;  where — during  the  performance  of 
"  Every  Man  in  his  Humour" — I  (as  Tib)  was  perched  up 
at  an  aperture  in  the  flat  scene  at  the  back  of  the  stage, 
out  of  reach  of  prompter's  voice,  and  Ben  Jonson's  some- 
what disjointed  and  irrelevant  words  slipped  entirely  out 
of  my  memory  for  some  moments.  The  actor  on  the 
stage  at  whom  I  was  stated  to  have  "stared,"  was  Mr. 
Dudley  Costello,  who  played  Kno'well.  Forster,  as  Kitely, 
came  on  later  in  the  same  scene,  dragging  Tib  forth  from 
the  house  ;  and  I  recollect  his  doing  this  with  such  force 
of  dramatic  vehemence, — swinging  me  round  with  a 
strong  rapid  fling— that  had  it  not  been  for  my  old  (or 
rather,  young)  skill  in  dancing,  which  rendered  me  both 
nimble  and  sure-footed,  I  should  have  been  down  upon 
the  stage.  The  reader  will  readily  understand  how 
pleasantly  these  reminders  of  our  acting-days  came  to  me 
abroad, — after  a  decade  had  elapsed, — from  my  "  Im- 
placable manager." 

Gad's  Hill  Place,  Higham  by  Rochester,  Kent, 
2 1  St  Aug.  1859. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke, — I  cannot  tell  you  how 
much  pleasure  I  have  derived  from  the  receipt  of  your 
earnest  letter.  Do  not  suppose  it  possible  that  such  praise 
can  be  "  less  than  nothing  "  to  your  old  Manager.  It  is  more 
than  all  else. 

Here  in  my  little  country  house  on  the  summit  of  the  hill 
where  Falstaff  did  the  robbery,  your  words  have  come  to  me 
in  the  most  appropriate  and  delightful  manner.  When  the 
story  can  be  read  all  at  once,  and  my  meaning  can  be  better 
seen,  I  will  send  it  to  you  (sending  it  to  Dean  Street,  if  you 
tell  me  of  no  better  way)  and  it  will  be  a  hearty  gratification 
to  think  that  you  and  your  good  husband  are  reading  it  to- 
gether, For  you  must  both  take  notice,  please,  that  I  have 
a  reminder  of  you  always  before  me.  On  my  desk  here 
stand  two  green  leaves,  which   I  every  morning  station  in 


336      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

their  ever-green  place  at  my  elbow.  The  leaves  on  the  oak- 
trees  outside  the  window  are  less  constant  than  these,  for 
they  are  with  me  through  the  four  seasons. 

Lord  !  to  think  of  the  bygone  day  when  you  were 
stricken  mute  (was  it  not  at  Glasgow  T)  and,  being  mounted 
on  a  tall  ladder  at  a  practicable  window,  stared  at  Forster, 
and  with  a  noble  constancy  refused  to  utter  word  !  Like  the 
Monk  among  the  pictures  with  Wilkie,  I  begin  to  think 
that  the  real  world,  and  this  the  sham  that  goes  out  with  the 
lights.     God  bless  you  both. 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

The  "  Sonnets"  mentioned  in  the  following  letter  were 
the  six  sonnets  on  "  Godsends  ;"  and,  at  my  request, 
they  were  published  all  six  at  once  (instead  of  by  "  two  " 
at  a  time)  in  No.  74  of  "  All  the  Year  round  "  for  the 
22nd  September,  i860  : — 

London,  23rd  April,  i860. 

My  DEAR  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke, — I  lose  no  time  in 
acknowledging  the  receipt  of  your  very  welcome  letter.  I  do 
so  briefly — not  from  choice  but  necessity.  If  I  promised 
myself  the  pleasure  of  writing  you  a  long  letter,  it  is  highly 
probable  that  I  should  postpone  it  until  heaven  knows  what 
remote  time  of  my  life. 

I  hope  to  get  two  of  the  sonnets  in  shortly ;  say  within  a 
month  or  so. 

The  Ghost  in  the  Picture-room,  Miss  Procter — The  Ghost 
in  the  Clock-room,  a  New  Lady,  who  had  \&xy  rarely  (if 
ever)  tried  her  hand  before — The  Ghost  in  the  Garden- 
room,  Mrs   Gaskell. 

Observe,  my  dear  Concordance- because  it  makes  the 
name  of  my  Gad's  Hill  house  all  tne  better — the  name  is 
none  of  my  giving ;  the  house  has  borne  that  name  these 
eighty  years — ever  since  it  was  a  house. 

With  kind  regards  to  Cowden  Clarke, 

Ever  your  faithful  friend, 

Charles  Dickens. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  337 

A  letter  to  me,  dated  "Friday  25th  Januar)^  1861," 
has  the  following  playful  and  friendly  conclusion ;  the 
*'  Property  house-broom  "  refers  to  the  one  with  which  I 
used  busily  to  sweep,  as  Dame  Quickly,  when  her  master, 
Dr.  Caius,  unexpectedly  returns  home  : — 

I  am  glad  to  find  you  so  faithfully  following  '*  Great  Expec- 
tations," which  story  is  an  immense  success.  As  I  was  at 
work  upon  it  the  other  day,  a  letter  from  ynur  sister  Emma 

appeared  upon  my  table Instantly,  1  seemed  to  see 

her  at  needlework  in  the  dark  stage-box  of  the  Haymarket 
in  the  morning,  and  you  swept  yourself  into  my  full  view 
with  a  '  Property  '  house-broom.  With  the  kindest  regards 
to  Cowden  Clarke,  whom  I  have  always  quoted  since  "  The 
Lighthouse  *'  as  the  best  "  audience  ''  known  to  mortality, 
Believe  me  ever  affectionately  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

In  the  summer  of  1862  my  husband  and  I  went  with 
my  brother  Alfired  and  sister  Sabilla  for  an  enchanting 
visit  to  England,  to  hear  the  Handel  Festival  and  to  see 
the  International  Exhibition.  Many  other  delights  of 
ear  and  eye  then  fell  to  our  share  :  such  as  our  dear  old 
Philharmonic  and  other  concerts,  as  well  as  Exhibition 
of  Old  Masters  at  the  British  Institution,  Royal  Academy 
Exhibition,  National  Gallery,  Kensington  Museum,  John 
Leech's  collected  oil  sketches,  Rosa  Bonheur's  pictures, 
Burford's  Panorama  ot  Naples,  Messina,  and  top  of  the 
Righi,  a  very  feast  of  sounds  and  sights  after  our  long 
fast  from  such  dainties.  For  though  abroad  we  had 
occasionally  heard  music  and  seen  paintings,  it  had  been 
at  sparse  intervals ;  not  a  daily  recurring  artistic  banquet 
such  as  we  enjoyed  that  never-to-be-forgotten  season. 
Among  the  delights  we  came  in  for,  were  two  readings  by 
Charles  Dickens  at  St.  James's  Hall :  one  on  the  19th 
June,  "The  Christmas  Carol"  and   "Trial  from  Pick- 

z 


338      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

wick;"  the  other  on  the  27th  June,  from  "Nicholas 
Nickleby,"  "  Boots  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn,"  and  "  Mrs. 
Gamp,"  In  reply  to  our  letter  telling  him  what  a  sur- 
passing treat  we  had  enjoyed  on  both  evenings,  he  sent  us 
the  following  note  of  affectionate  reproach  : — 

Gad's  Hill  Place,  Higham  by  Rochester,  Kent, 

7th  July,  1862. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,— I  am  very  angry  with 
you  and  your  other  half  for  having  the  audacity  to  go  to  my 
readings  without  first  writing  to  me  !  And  if  I  had  not  been 
in  France  since  I  read  last,  and  were  not  going  back  there  im- 
mediately, I  would  summon  you  both  to  come  to  this  Falstafif- 
Ground  and  receive  the  reward  of  your  misdeeds. 

Here  are  the  two  green  leaves  on  my  table  here,  as  green 
as  ever.     They  have  not   blushed  at   your  conduct  at   St. 
James's  Hall,  but  they  would  have  done  it  if  they  could. 
With  indignant  regard,  believe  me  ever  faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

On  our  first  coming  to  reside  in  Genoa,  my  husband 
and  I  made  a  point  of  going  over  to  Albaro  at  the  earliest 
opportunity,  to  find  out  the  Villa  Bagnerello  (the  "  Pink 
Jail,"  as  he  calls  it  in  his  "  Pictures  from  Italy")  where 
Charles  Dickens  once  lived.  We  took  with  us  some  of 
the  simple  bread-cake,  called  pan  dolce  di  Geneva,  for 
which  the  place  is  famous,  and  ate  it  together  as  a  kind 
of  picnic  lunch,  under  some  trees  by  the  road-side  in  the 
lane  where  the  "  Pink  Jail  "  stands,  that  as  festive  an  air  as 
possible  might  be  given  to  our  expedition  in  honour  of  one 
who  was  so  peculiarly  endowed  with  the  power  of  making  a 
party  of  pleasure  go  pleasantly  and  who  was  so  intimately 
associated  with  the  most  holiday  episode  of  my  life.  We 
subsequently  went  also  to  see  the  Palazzo  Peschiere  and 
gardens  [see  the  charming  description  of  them  at  pages 
72 — 75  of  "  Pictures  from  Italy  "],  where  Charles  Dickens 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LE  TTERS.  339 

lived  after  he  left  the  "  Pink  Jail :"  and  of  these  two 
loving  pilgrimages  we  told  him  in  a  letter  to  which  the 
following  is  a  reply.  The  "  plan  "  to  which  it  refers  was 
one  of  Genoa,  which  formed  the  printed  heading  of  the 
paper  npon  which  we  wrote  to  him ;  and  "  Minnie's 
Musings,"  is  the  name  of  a  little  verse-story  which  he 
published  in  "  All  the  Year  round  "  for  29th  December, 
x866  :— 

Office  of  "All  the  Year  round,"  London, 
3rd  Nov.  1866. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke,— I  am  happy  to  accept 
"  Minnie's  Musings"  for  insertion  here.     When  it  appears 
(unless  I  hear  from  you  to  the  contrary)  Mr.  Wills's  business 
cheque  shall  be  enclosed  to  Mr.  Littleton  in  Dean  Street. 

This  is  written  in  great  haste  and  distraction,  by  reason  of 
my  being  in  the  height  of  the  business  of  the  Xmas  No. 
And  as  I  have  this  year  written  half  of  it  myself,  the  always 
difficult  work  of  selecting  from  an  immense  heap  of  con- 
tributions is  rendered  twice  as  difficult  as  usual,  by  the  con- 
tracted space  available. 

Ah  !  your  plan  brings  before  me  my  beloved  Genoa,  and 
it  would  gladden  my  heart  indeed  to  look  down  upon  its  bay 
once  again  from  the  high  hills. 

No  green  leaves  in  present  prospect. 

Affectionately  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 

The  next  notelet  serves  to  show  the  grace  and  cordi- 
ality with  which  he  wrote  even  when  most  briefly  : — 

Office  of  "All  the  Year  round," 
17th  June,  1867. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke, — I  have  great  pleasure 
in  retaining  "The  Yule  Log  "  for  the  regular  No.  to  be  pub- 
lished  at   Xmas   time ;   not  for   the   Xmas    No.  so  called 
because  that  will  be  on  a  new  plan  this  year,  which  will  not 
embrace  such  a  contribution. 

Z   2 


340      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  WRITERS. 

With  kind  regard  and  remembrance  to  your  husband, 
Believe  me  always 

Your  faithful  old  Manager, 

Charles  Dickens. 
Your  two  green  leaves  are  always  verdant  on  my  table  at 
Gad's  Hill. 

And  the  next — the  last,  alas,  we  ever  received  from 
him! — was  in  answer  to  a  "Godspeed"  letter  we  had 
written  to  him  upon  learning  that  he  was  going  for  a 
second  visit  to  America  : — 

Gad's  Hill,  Higham  by  Rochester, 
2nd  Nov.  1867. 
Heartfelt  thanks,  my  dear  Quickly  and  Cowden  Clarke,  for 
your  joint  good  wishes.     They  are  more  than  welcome  to  me, 
and  so  God  bless  you. 

Faithfully  yours  always, 

Charles  Dickens. 

The  hearty  kindness,  the  warmth  of  farewell  blessing, 
formed  a  fitting  close  to  a  friendship  that  had  brought 
nothing  but  kindly  feeling  and  blessed  happiness  to  those 
who  had  enjoyed  its  privilege.  In  June,  1870,  I  read 
four  words  on  the  page  of  an  Italian  morning  newspaper, 
which  were  the  past  night's  telegram  from  England, — 
*'  Carlo  Dickens  e  morto" — and  the  sun  seemed  suddenly 
blotted  out,  as  I  looked  upon  the  fatal  line.  Often,  since, 
this  sudden  blur  of  the  sunshine  comes  over  the  fair  face 
of  Genoese  sea,  sky,  harbour,  fortressed  hills,  which  he 
described  as  "  one  of  the  most  fascinating  and  delightful 
prospects  in  the  world," — when  I  look  upon  it  and  think 
that  his  living  eyes  can  never  again  behold  a  scene  he 
loved  so  well :  but  then  returns  the  broad  clear  light  that 
illumined  his  own  nature,  making  him  so  full  of  faith  in 
loveliness  and  goodness,  as  to  shed  a  perpetually  beaming 


CHARLES  DICKENS  AND  HIS  LETTERS.  341 

genial  effect  upon  those  who  knew  him, — and  one's  spirit 
revives  in  another  and  a  better  hope. 

Three  of  his  portraits— the  one  by  Samuel  Lawrence, 
the  one  by  Maclise,  and  the  one  published  by  the 
"Graphic"  in  1870- together  with  those  of  others  whom 
we  cherished  in  lifetime  and  cherish  still  in  memory — 
are  placed  where  we  see  them  the  last  thing  before  we 
close  our  eyes  at  night  and  the  first  thing  on  awaking  in 
the  morning :  and  in  that  Eternal  Morning,  which  we  all 
trust  will  dawn  for  us  hereafter,  the  "■  Author  Cow^Xq" 
hope  to  behold  the  dear  originals  again,  and  rejoin  them 
for  evermore  iu  immortal  Friendship  and  Love. 


INDEX. 


Adams,  Thomstv',  67. 
Adams,  Sarah  I-'.ower,  76. 
Adamson,  John,  icx). 
Albert,  Mdme  ,  75. 
Allibone,  Austin,  III. 
Alsager,  Thomas,  128,  129. 
"American  Enthusiast,"  110,  289. 
Attwood,  Thomas,  67. 


B. 


Balmanno,  Mrs.  Mary,  III. 

Bannister,  John,  19. 

Barnes,  Thomas,  17. 

Bassano,  Signor,  20,  21, 

Bell,  John,  1 15. 

Blanc,  Louis,  92. 

Blessington,  Countess  of,  42. 

Bonomi,  Joseph,  92. 

Booth,  15. 

Bowie,  Henry,  99. 

Bovvring,  John,  87. 

Bright,  John,  87. 

Brown,  Charles  Armitage,  146. 

Byron,  Lord,  147. 


Carlyle,  Thomas,  85,  86. 


Cartigny,  75. 

Cartwright,  Major  and  Mrs.,  8,  9. 

Chambers,  Robert,  95,  96,  266. 

Chorley,  Henry,  103. 

Christie,  Alexander,  98. 

Clark,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Francis,  99. 

Clarke,  John,   I,    18,   27,   29,    120, 

191. 
Cobden,  Richaid,  87,  88. 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,    30,  3 1, 

32,  33'  34.  35.  63,  64. 
Collier,  J.  Payne,  95,  96,  288. 
Collins,  Wilkie,  332, 
Costello,  Dudley,  335. 
Coulson,  26. 
Cowper,  Edward,  10. 
Cox,  Robert,  99. 
Craik,  Professor,  267. 
Cramer,  John,  65,  66. 
Critics,  108. 

Crosland,  Mrs.  Newton,  103. 
Crowe,  Mrs.  Catherine,  98. 
Craikshanks,     George,     95,     307, 

314- 


Dalby,  John  Watson,  112. 
Davenport,  Mrs.  72. 
Dawson,  George,  99. 
Devonshire,  Duke  of,  320. 
Devrient,  Mdme.  Schrceder,  69. 


44 


INDEX. 


De  Wilde,  George  James,  io8. 
Dickens,  Charles,   93,  94,  95,   295 

to  341. 
Dickens,  Mrs.  Charles,  320,  334, 
D'Israeli,  Benjamin,  275. 
Dobell,  Sidney,  103. 
Donzelli,  75- 
Dowton,  19,  65,  73.  74. 
Dyer,  George,  2,  li,  12,  13. 


E. 


Egg,   Augustus,  95,   299,  307,  309, 

320,  323,  324,  332. 
EUesmere,  Lord  and  Lady,  96. 
Elliston,  19. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  92. 
Enfield,  2,  51,  120. 
Elty,  William,  105,  106,  162. 


Farrar,  Mrs.  John,  113. 
Farren,  William,  303. 
Fawcett,  199. 
Ferguson.  Robert,  102. 
Field?,  James  T.,  117,  150. 
Flower  Adams,  Sarah,  76. 
Flower,  Eliza,  76. 
Forster,  John,  95,  299,  306,  335. 
Fox,  W.  J.,  87,  88. 
Fryer,  the  Rev.  Wm.  Victor,  :b. 
Furness,     Mr.    and    Mrs.     Horace 
Howard,  ill. 


G. 

Garrick,  David,  183,  184. 
Gaskell,  Mrs.,  92,  93,  336. 


Gattie,  the  l.rothers,  17. 

Geddes,  Dr.  Alex.,  5- 

Genoa,  119,338. 

Gibbon,  the  historian,  183. 

Gibson,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milner,  92. 

Gilpin,  "  the  bookseller,"  274. 

Gliddon  family,  22,  206,  218. 

Godwin,  William,  15,  36,  37,  58.         ' 

Good,  Mason,  5. 

Gordon,  the  Rev.  John,  1 16. 

Gordon,  the  Rev.  Alex.,  1 16. 

Gordon,  Sheriff,  95,  96,  318. 

Grey,  Mrs.  William,  115. 

Grimstone,    Mrs.    Leman,   76,    77, 

78. 
GuschI,  Barbara,  116. 


H. 


Haitzinger,  69. 

Hampstead,  49,  202. 

Havell,  William,  105,  195,  309. 

Hazlitt,  William,  26,  59,  60,  61, 
62,  63,  147,  160. 

Hill,  the  Rev.  Rowland,  3. 

Hill,  Sir  Rowland,  lOO. 

Hill,  Malhevv  Davenport,  lOO. 

Hodgson,  Dr.  and  Mrs.,  99. 

Hoqg,  Jefferson,  36. 

Holmes,  Edward,  9,  lO,  39,  40,  142, 
161,  168,    01. 

Hone,  William,  47. 

Hood,  Thomas,  55,  89,  90. 

Horne,  R.  H.,  332. 

Hummel,  65,  67. 

Humphreys,  Noel,  92. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  16,  17,  18,  28,  43, 
45.  46.  48,  49>  5°.  62,  65,  75,  77, 
78,  86,  87,  91,  93,  127,  132,  133, 
134,  160,  190  to  272,  321,  322. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  his  portrait,  19. 


INDEX. 


345 


Hunt,  Leigh,  his  reading,  22,  23. 
Hunt,  Vincent,  51. 
Hunter,  John,  98,  318. 


I. 

"  Indicator,"  244. 
Ingleby,  Dr.  C.  M.,  112. 
Ireland,  Alexander,  no,  1 16. 
Isola,  Emma,  181. 


Keats,  John,  his  sister,  I2T. 

,    his  portrait,  154. 

Kelly,    Fanny,  19,    175,    181,   301 

302. 
Kemble,  John,  14,  73. 
,    Stephen,  73. 


,    Charles,  71,  73» 

,    Mrs.  Charles,  71. 

,    Fanny,  65,  71,  72. 

,    Adelaide,  73. 

Kent,    Miss  ("Bessie"),  207, 

225. 
Knight,  Charles,  95,  288,  319. 


211, 


Jennings    (John     Keats's    matenial 

giandtather),  121. 
Ijerdan,  William,  92. 
Ijerrold,  Douglas,  79,  80,  81,  82,  83, 
273  to  294,  333. 

Jerrold,  Mrs.,  282,  286. 

Jerrold  and  the  runaway  sailor,  285. 

Jerrold's  acting,  80,  279,  2S0. 

Jerrold's  affection  for  booivs,  283. 

Jerrold's  repartees,  280,  281. 

Jerrold's  sense  oi  beauty  in  women, 
2S8, 

Jones.  Owen,  92. 

Jordan,  Mrs.,  62. 

"Junius  Redivivus,"  76. 


K. 


Kavanagh,  Julia,  90. 

Kean,  Edmund,  14,  18,  123. 

Keats,  John,   4,  9,    19,  28,   29,   51, 

52,   120  to    157,    194,   19s.    199. 

201. 
Keats,  John,  his  father  and  mother, 

120. 
■ .    his  brothers   I2I. 


Lablache,  75. 

Lamb,  Charles,  28,  53,  54,   55.  5^, 

57,  82,  83,  147,  158  to  175,  284. 
Lamb,    Maiy,    41,    52,   53,    176  to 

189. 
Laml)s,  the,  19,  27,  40,  52,  53,  54, 

234- 
Lamb,  James,  108. 
Landseers,  the,  91. 
Laporte,  75. 
Latimer,  Thomas,  109, 
Latimer,  Isaac,  109. 
Leech,    John,    95,    299,   306,    31 1, 

337- 
Lemaitre,  Frederic,  76. 
Lemon,    Mark,  95,  297,    299.    306, 

309,  312,  316,  317,  318,  322,  323, 

332. 
Leslie,  Robert  Charles,  103,  106. 
Lewes,  George  H.,  95,  306,  309. 
Lind,  Jenny,  310. 
List  on,  John,  19. 
Liszt,  67,  68. 
Loudon,  Mrs.,  91. 
Lytton,  Richard  Warburton,  5,  6. 

A  a 


346 


INDEX. 


M. 

Macirone,  Clara  Angela,  115. 

Macready,  William,  65,  74,  85,  295, 
302. 

Main,  Alexander,  112. 

Mars,  Mdlle.,  75. 

Maish,  His  Excellency  George  Per- 
kins, 112. 

Marston,  Westland,  103. 

Martin,  Mr.,  91. 

Martin,  Miss,  91, 

Massey,  Gerald,  112. 

Mathews,  the  elder,  81. 

Mayer,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Townshend, 
III. 

Mazzini,  Giuseppe,  290,  293. 

Meadows,  Kenny,  308. 

Mellon,  Miss,  48. 

Mendelssohn,  Felix,  68,  69. 

Moore,  Thomas,  17. 

Moritz,  Mdme.  Henrietta,  115. 

Mulock,  Miss,  103. 

Munden,  Joseph,  19,  185. 

Murray,  Lord,  98. 

N. 

Nesbitt,  Mrs.,  62,  28S,  2S9,  303. 
Mew,  Herbert,  115. 
Norton,  the  Hon.  Mrs.,  42,  2S9. 
Novello,Vincent,  1,18,19,29,68  201. 

,   Mrs.,  21,  23,  24,  25,  205, 

220. 

,    Francis,  38,  39. 

,   Alfred,  70,  337, 

,   Cecilia,  79. 

,   Emma,  299,  325,  329,  337. 

,    Sabilla,  277,  278,  337. 

Novellos,  the,  37. 

Nuj^ent,  Lord  George,  91,  292. 


O. 

Oilier,  Charles,  17,  137,  192. 
Oilier,  Edmund,  iii,  334. 
O'Neil,  Miss,  14. 

Osier,  Mr.  and  Mr?.  FoUet,  99,  333. 
Oxenford,  John,  84. 

P. 

Paganini,  75. 

Paton,  Miss,  65. 

Payne,  Howard,  1S3. 

Payne,  Mrs.,  222. 

Peacock,   Dr.    Beddoes,    loo,    loi,. 

102. 
Peacock,  Henry  Barry,  100,  255. 
Peake,  Richard,  81,  82. 
Perlet,  75,  76. 
Phillips,  Colonel,  183. 
Pickering.  Thomas,  loS,  109. 
Pillans,  Professor,  98. 
Plessy,  Mdlle.,  75. 
Potier,  64,  65,  75. 
Power,  201,  202,  205. 
Priestly,  Dr.,  5. 
Pritchard,  Mrs.,  8. 
Procter,  Bryan  Waller,  28,  36,  1 16, 

201. 
Procter,  Miss,  339. 
Publishers,  107. 
Pulszky,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  1 14. 

R. 

Rachel,  Mdlle.,  76. 
Reade,  Edmund,  63. 
Richards,  Tom,  17,  201. 
Robertson,    Henry,     17,     39,     i.j2, 

195,  231. 
Robinson,  Henry  Crabbe,  36. 
Rolt,  John,  103,  104. 
Rosbini,  66. 


INDEX. 


347 


Rule,  Frederick,  112, 
Rushton,  William  Lowes,  112. 
Ryland,  Arthur,  99. 
Ryland,  the  Rev.  John,  2,  3. 


S. 


Scadding,  the  Rev.  Dr.,  iii. 
Schroeder-Devrient,  Mdme,  69. 
Serle,  Thomas  James,  79,  84. 
Severn,  Joseph,  141,  155. 
Severn's  portraits  of  Keats,  154- 
Shacklewell,  232. 
"Shakespeare   Night"   at    Covent 

Garden  Theatre,  287. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,    19,   25,  26, 

28,  151,  152,  153,  195,  196. 
Shelley,  Mrs.,    37,  z%,  39,  41,   42, 

218,  219. 
Shirreff,  Miss,  1 14. 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  14,  73. 
Smith,  Horace,  59,   132. 
Smith,  William,  99. 
Smith,  Robert  Mackay,  99. 
Smith,     Colonel    Hamilton,      307, 

308. 
Somerville,  Mrs.  Mary,  114. 
Stael,  Mdme.  de,  183. 
Stanfield,  Clarkson,  103,  106,  332. 
Stearns,  Dr.  Charles,  iii. 
Stirling,  Mrs.,  98,  116. 
Stokes,  Charles,  67. 
Stone,  95,  299,  332. 
Stothard,  205. 


Tagart,  the  Rev.  Edward,  91,  92. 


Tagart,  Mrs.,  92. 

Talfourd,  82. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace,  283. 

Thackeray.  Miss,  115. 

Thalberg,  66. 

Thaxter,  Celia,  1 17. 

Thompson,  Colonel;  87.  89. 

Timmins,  Samuel,  99,  IIO. 

Topham,  F.  W.,  95. 

Towers,  Isabella  Jane,  61,  78. 

Tree,  Miss  M.  A.,  62. 

Tvviss,  Frank,  II. 

Twiss,  Horace,  25. 

Twiss,  Richard,  II. 


V. 

Varlcy,  John,  104. 

Vert  pre,  Mile.  Jenny,  75. 

Villicrs,  Charles  Pelham,  87. 


W. 

Wngeman,  19,  20. 
Wakefield,  Gilbert,  5- 
Webbe,  Egerton,  82,  84. 
West  Lodge,  Putney,  283,  285. 
White,  Gilbert,  7. 
White,  Holt,  7,  8,  9. 
Whittington  Club,  285. 
Williams,  Mrs.,  37,  40,  216, 
Wilson,  George,  87. 
Wordsworth,  William,  149,  150. 


Y. 


Yates,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard,  95 


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VI.    Moore  and  Jerdan,  with  4  Ilhistrations. 


VII.   Cornelia      Knight     and     Thomas 
Raikes,  with  4  Illustrations. 
VIII.   O'Keeffe,  Kelly,  and  Taylor,  with 
4  Illustrations. 
IX.   Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and   Others,  with  4 
Illustrations  and  fac-simile  of  a  letter 
by  Lamb. 
X.   Constable  and  Gillies,  with  4  Illus- 
trations. 


A  sixtccii-pafe  Descripthe  Catalogue  of  the  Series,  containing  Specimen  Illus- 
irations,  sent  to  any  address  upon  application. 


WOW  BEADY: 

COMPLETE  SETS  OF  THE  BRIC-A-BRAC   SERIES  IN  THE 
FOLLOWING    STYLES:— 

)     Cloth,  in  a  ne,\t  box $15  00 

7.    Half  vellum,  red  edges,  in  a  handsome  box,  of  an  entirely  new 

style 17-50 

^    Half  calf,  extra,  in  a  handsome  box,  of  an  entirely  new  style 20.o« 

Sent,  post-paid,  or  express  charges  paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  AND  745  Broadway.  New  York. 


Two  New  and  Important  Biographies. 
I. 

[TA^  authorized  Life  of  the  author  of'''  The  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Ea/er."] 

THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY; 

HIS   LIFE  AND  WRITINGS. 

?Vii/i   Unpublished  Corrcspondenct, 

BY   H.  A.  PAGE. 

WITH  A  NEW  WOODBURYTYFE  PORTRAIT  OF  DE  QUmCEY. 
Two  Volumes,  lamo,  Cloth,  Gilt  Top,  $4.00. 


CIHTICAli      NOTICES. 

"  One  of  the  most  interesting  and  well-written  biographies  which  we  have  read  fof 
lome  time." — London  Standard, 

"  Mr.  Page  has  well  performed  a  lovir.g  and  a  grateful  task." — Boston  ''^rauscript. 

"A  singularly  entertaining  book." — Neiv  York  Evening  Post. 

"Decidedly  this  life  of  l)e  Quincey  is  the  best  biography  of  the  year  in  the  English 
language." — IViiladelphia  Evening  Bulletiit. 

ir. 
A  NEW  LIFE  OF  CHARLOTTE  BRONTE: 

CHARLOTTE    BRONTE: 

A   MONOGRAPH. 

By   T.    WEMYSS     REID. 

With  Illustrations  and  Facsimile  of  a  Characteristic  Letter. 

One  Volume,  i2mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


Estimate    of  the    London    Standard. 

"This  is  no  ordinary  work,  and  we  have  reason  to  believe  will  produce  no  ordinary 
tensation  in  the  literary  world.  Mr.  Reid  has  been  able,  by  the  letters  of  her  dearest  ar<J 
most  intimate  friends,  and  from  other  sources,  to  penetrate  into  the  inmost  recesses,  noi 
merely  of  his  heroine's  home  life,  but  into  her  very  heart  life,  if  we  may  so  speak,  as  re- 
reahd  in  her  private  correspondence,  where  she  spoke  heart  to  heart  with  those  .she  loved 
with  80  much  of  tenderness  and  truth." 


*,*  The   aho7te   books  for  sale  by  all  booksellers^   or  -mill  be  sent,  prepaid,  upon 
r!ciij>t  of  price,  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  and  745  BROAinv.vY,   Ni:w  York. 


A     r>E;iL,I&IITirXJL     BOOTi. 


Charles  Kingsley: 

HIS    LETTERS 

AND 

MEMORIES     OF     HIS     LIFE. 

EDITED  BY  HIS  WIFE, 
WITH  STEEL  PORTRAIT  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

ABRIDGED  EDITION. 

One  volume  8vo.     50x3  Pages.    Cloth, $2.3* 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 


From  the  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  The  warm  admiration  of  the  author,  which  his  books  excite,  will  be  confirmed  by 
the  deeper  glimpses  into  his  heart  which  this  volume  of  'Letters and  Memorials'  allow." 

From  the   N,   Y.   Tribiuie. 

"It  will  be  read  with  far  greater  interest  than  the  lives  of  the  impossible  models  of 
perfection  that  fill  so  large  a  space  in  English  and  American  biography." 

From    the    Chicago    Union. 

"To  men  and  women  of  pure  minds  and  right  aspirations,  it  would  be  hard  to 
suggest  a  more  entertaining  volume." 

From  the  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  The  reader  i=  made  to  feel  the  richness  and  strength  of  his  nature  from  his  early 
youth,  his  ardor,  his  intense  emotions,  his  unselfishness,  his  great  physical  vigor,  his 
thorough  manliness,  his  broad,  splendid  usefulness." 

Frotn  the  London  Saturday  Revienv. 

"  The  book  discharges  very  completely  the  most  essential  functions  of  a  biography. 
It  enables  us  to  know  Mr.  Kingsley  thoroughly  well  ;  to  appreciate  his  strongest  motis'es  ; 
to  understand  what  he  thought  about  himself  and  his  performances ;  and  to  form  a 
tolerably  complete  estimate  of  his  work." 

From  the   British    Quarterly  Revie7t>. 

"Mrs.  Kingsley  has  edited  these  memorials  of  her  distinguished  husband  with 
good  taste  and  great  care.  .  .  .  The  book  is  worthy  of  the  subject,  intensely  inter- 
esting alike  from  the  wide  circle  of  subjects  it  touches,  and  the  beautiful,  gifted,  humane, 
and  sympathetic  spirit  which  it  brings  so  near  to  us." 


*,*  The  above  book  Jor  sale  by  all  booksell  rs,  or   inill  be  sent,  post  or  ejtpress 
charges  paid,  upon  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  publishers, 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS, 

743  AND  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


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